Page 41 of Meet Me In The Dark (Skeptically In Love #3)

I wake in Julian’s bed to sunlight and a note from him.

Had to go into the office. I’ll be home as soon as I can. Make yourself at home. Eat breakfast.

The bed is way too comfortable, but the pull of caffeine wins.

Downstairs, the kitchen offers the same sweeping ocean views as the rest of the house.

Feeling pain-free and oddly at ease, I turn on the radio, pour water into the coffee maker, and grab my phone.

The morning light is flooding the room, and the view beyond is perfect.

I lift my phone, snap a photo from right here at the counter, and send it to the group chat with Emmy and Madison.

Me: Current view. Not bad for a Tuesday morning.

Emmy: You’re still not home?

Madison: Are you being held hostage? Do you need us to call Liam Neeson?

Me: No hostage situation. Just temporarily relocated .

Madison: Zoom in. I want to see if there’s a reflection of Julian in those windows, preferably topless.

Me: No reflection. No Julian. He’s at the office.

Madison: So you’re just unsupervised in his house?

Emmy: God help him.

Me: I’m making coffee. Being normal.

Madison: Normal people don’t end up in billionaire beach houses with ocean views.

Emmy: She’s going to set the house on fire, isn’t she?

Me: I’m fine. The coffee machine just has forty-seven buttons.

Madison: Press them all. Live a little.

Emmy: You know what has to happen now.

Me: No.

Madison: Yes. Snooping.

Emmy: Thorough snooping.

Me: I am not snooping.

Madison: Do it.

Emmy: Start with the kitchen drawers. That’s where the secrets live.

Me: I will open one drawer.

Emmy: Make it the mystery drawer. Every kitchen has one.

Me: It’s cutlery.

Madison: Boring. Try another.

Me: No.

Emmy: What if there’s something scandalous? Like a passport under a fake name.

Me: Ems, you’ve got to stop watching those shows, honey.

Emmy: Just open something.

Madison: Check his coffee mugs. You can tell a lot about a man by the color of his coffee mugs.

Me: All plain white.

Emmy: Serial killer.

Madison: Go upstairs.

Me: No.

Emmy: Closet pics.

Me: Absolutely not.

Madison: Handcuffs? Kinky stuff?

Me: Um…???

Emmy: Oh my god.

Madison: She’s blushing. I know it.

Me: I’m muting this chat.

Madison: You can’t mute the truth.

Emmy: Or us.

I drop the phone face down on the counter before they can start sending me a list of “things to snoop for in a rich man’s house.”

Coffee first, sanity second.

The machine hisses to life, filling the kitchen with the comforting smell of caffeine. I pour a mug, cradle it between my palms, and wander toward the glass doors.

The cool morning air rushes in when I slide them open, carrying the steady rhythm of waves.

And then I step out and almost drop the coffee mug.

At the far end of the deck, angled perfectly toward the horizon, waits an easel with a blank canvas. A stool beside it. Brushes lined in a perfect arc. A palette already dotted with every color I could possibly want.

The breath leaves me all at once.

He remembered.

The ocean glitters in the distance, but it’s nothing compared to the spark that wakes in my chest, the quiet, familiar itch in my fingers I thought I’d buried years ago.

There’s a note stuck to the canvas. Just six words, written in his sharp hand :

Be a good girl and paint.

The world tilts. For a second, I can’t tell if I want to laugh, cry, or throw myself headfirst into this man’s arms.

Instead, I set my coffee on the railing, pick up a brush, and let the world fade away.