Page 88 of Beautiful Lies

But that illusion shatters the moment I reach the atrium.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the garden, I see her.

Isla sits on a fold-out chair beneath the old oak tree, completely absorbed in her work. An easel is set up in front of her, and she's painting with the kind of focused intensity that makes the rest of the world disappear.

The sight of her stops me cold, and at the same time, all the blood in my body seems to rush to my cock.

I think of last night, but watching her in her element also grips me.

Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun that holds a few pencils, stuck there like a pin cushion. A paint-stained apron covers what looks like an old college sweatshirt and a pair of shorts.

My gaze roams over those golden legs I almost had wrapped around me, then I look back at her painting.

Isla looks like she’s on one hell of a mission, so focused, so determined, so lost in her creative vision.

She’s working on that piece again. The dark gothic-looking one from her apartment.

It never occurred to me that she might actually be working toward something, but it’s clear now. I remember when she was talking about paying me back with the theoretical money she thought she may have. Maybe it was going to come from this.

Is she planning to sell her artwork?

Or get a new job?

That would make sense. Even I have to admit that she’s incredibly talented.

Despite our differences, I hope she does sell her art or get a new job—though I told her she didn’t have to work. I know she will, though. People like her have their pride, but it’s not entirely about that with her.

Her art seems to be her world, and when you’re doing something you love, you never work a day in your life. It becomes living.

My reasoning sounds like I’m speaking from experience, but I’m not. And maybe that’s why I admire her.

Football was the closest I ever got to being someone other than a Vale. I try not to think about those days too much because it feels like I lived on borrowed time.

I was an amazing linebacker, but I was born and bred to lead the Vale empire. And I accepted that. I chose it.

But sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I’d chosen a different path. Something that wasn’t already chosen for me.

Just like the artist in my garden.

She found her path in life. Her purpose. Her dream. And every brushstroke tells me she’s fighting to hold on to it.

Isla pauses and steps back to assess her work, tilting her head in that way that's becoming familiar to me.

There's something almost meditative about watching her. Something that draws me closer to the window despite myself. Almost like I want to see inside her head to know what she’s thinking.

I could go ask her. I could open the door, go outside, and walk right up to her and ask her.

Or I could do something entirely different. Like kiss her the way I did last night. Ormore.

But I won’t.

The moment the thought hits me, Isla’s back goes ramrod straight and she looks over her shoulder, right at me.

The shock of seeing me standing here turns her dewy skin pale. With her brush in hand, she faces me, those full, kissable lips parted and her eyes wide.

She stares back at me, too.

For a heartbeat, the world tilts, quiet and fragile, and all I can think about is how she felt in my arms. The memory hits like a tidal wave I can’t outrun, tearing through every ounce of control I have.