Page 9 of Darling

I take a step back, away from him, and Asher’s expressiontransforms into one of disappointment.

“I should go,” I say as I pull out my mobile. “I just need to call a cab.”

He slides off of the counter. “Um, I can drive you wherever you need to go, no worries. Just give me a sec.” His tone is a little more serious now.

“It’s fine, truly. I can get a cab.” The idea of him dropping me off at the gate of the ambassador’s residence makes me feel ill. As clear a sign as any that this is wrong. That I shouldn’t be doing this with him.

“I can take you back to the bookshop if you want,” he says as though he can read my mind. But I’m already on the Uber app, selecting my car from the list of options. “I promise you, a cab is fine.”

“Right, well, okay then.” After a moment of awkward silence, Asher says, “Do you mind if I go change real quick?”

“Of course not.” I wonder if it’s an excuse to not stand around uncomfortably while we wait for the cab, but he doesn’t seem the sort to be uncomfortable about anything, so perhaps those are just my own feelings. While he changes, I take a look around the apartment, noticing for the first time something that looks like a studio light on a stand in one corner, and a shorter one in another. I expect it’s something to do with painting, though the light in here is extremely generous—a night light perhaps? Something to do with drying the pieces. He’s clearly accomplished; that much is evident immediately. I wonder if he goes to art school or just sells to private buyers. Does he make enough money selling art? He must in order to afford a place like this, a car, and the wealth of supplies he has. I look at the painting on the balcony again. The painting of me.

I couldn’t stop thinking about you.

I glance at the closed bedroom door and imagine anotherversion of myself. How that version might just go in there now and wrap his arms around the boy in there and lose himself in him for an afternoon, perhaps a weekend. How that version could so easily lose himself in those baby-blue eyes and sweet, lush mouth. How he’d take everything being offered.

What was he offering, exactly? A quick fuck? I could use one, honestly. An extended arrangement? I’d made that work in London for almost four years, and I have far fewer prying eyes here. Felix had known who I was, though, and had kept my identity secret for years. Asher doesn’t seem like the type to gossip, even if he did find out who I was, but what do I know? I just met him this afternoon. It’s like I never learn.

Just as I’m wondering whether to leave before my Uber even arrives, he comes strolling out of the bedroom wearing patterned trousers that are too long and a black vest with paint splatters and a torn hem. It looks well-worn and hangs loose off his lean but surprisingly muscular frame. Strong shoulders and arms showcase the body of someone who works out and eats well. It’s not what I was expecting to be hidden under the layers of oversized clothes. A fierce lick of desire races through me.

“Sorry, I had to get out of those clothes.”

“You’re planning on doing some painting?” I indicate the paint-splattered top. He gives me an insulted look.

“Eh, this is vintage Westwood, how dare you?”

It takes me a half second to realise he’s joking, before his mouth turns up into a smile.

“Yeah, I guess I’ll try and finish the big guy off. You know, since I couldn’t do it for the real thing.” He gives me that now trademark seductive smile of his and sucks his lip into his mouth. Before I can react my phone vibrates, alerting me that my Uber is outside. I glance down at the screen.

“Your ride here?” He sounds disappointed.

“It is.” I nod.

“Well, maybe I’ll see you around...” There’s still a measure of flirtation in his tone, but less than there has been. I don’t blame him for it. I’m giving a jumble of mixed signals here.

“Yes, maybe you will,” I say lamely. “Thank you for the tea.”

“No problem.”

As I head for the door, I get an echo of the feeling I had when he walked out of the store, like something is pulling me back, urging me not to walk out of here without some promise that we’ll see each other again.

“Do you sell them?” I ask. He turns, one thick eyebrow raised speculatively. “Your paintings, do you sell them when you finish them?”

“Sometimes.”

I indicate toward it. “When you’re finished, perhaps you can send me a picture of it.”

“A picture,” he repeats in a deadpan voice.

“I mean, so I could buy it from you?”

“So you want a picture of it first, then you’ll decide if you wanna buy it?”

His eyes are narrowed like I’ve insulted him, but something tells me he’s playacting at being insulted. “Okay, no picture required. I’ll buy it unseen.”

He nods, looking impressed. “And what if you hate it? Likereallyhate it.”