Page 21 of Riding the Line (Willow Ridge #2)

Cherry

I’ve known Duke for almost all my life, and I’ve worked in the bar, which his apartment sits above, for over two years. Yet this is the first time I’ve ever been allowed up the stairs and through the front door.

For years I’ve tried to imagine what it was like inside.

Which parts of his personality would manifest and where.

Would it be full of smooth surfaces and muted colours, reserved and quiet like how he often presents himself to the world?

Or would it be messy and collaged with colour, a testament to the true artist within him?

A reflection of the emotion he never shares with us, perhaps.

The interior design student side of me would have a field day designing a home for Duke.

Like how I’d make the apartment open-plan – modern and sleek like Duke’s fashion sense, but also easy to move around, ensuring his living experience matches his calm energy.

Or how I’d design the sitting area as the focus of the space because I know how important being with friends and family is to him, even if it’s just to sit and listen to them talk.

And when I step inside, the realisation of just how deeply I know Duke hits me like a load of bricks, tumbling in my stomach.

Because his apartment is exactly as I would have designed.

A small kitchen lies at the other end of the open-plan apartment, one wooden-paned window behind it, moonlight shining through and reflecting off the sleek black countertops and breakfast bar.

Slate-grey couches sit perpendicular to each other in the centre of the room, surrounding a dark wooden coffee table, and angled towards the large flat-screen television hanging on the wall.

A lighter grey bean bag chair accompanies the couches, most likely the place Wolfman and Sawyer fight over to sit.

Wooden flooring extends throughout the room, while retro art prints and paintings of motorcycles, mountains, and rodeos are strategically scattered across the cream walls.

Canvases of complete and half-finished paintings are also wedged into any empty spaces, the talent and labour poured into them worthy of being far higher than where they’re currently stowed away.

I’ve gone and thrown myself straight into the deep end without anything to help me float. Because I’m in Duke Bennett’s goddamn apartment. A place that was once only ever a figment of my imagination.

I almost flinch when Duke decides to help me take his jacket off – I hadn’t realised how tightly I’d been grasping it, relishing the way his cypress scent soothed my frayed nerves. Neither of us have said anything since we parked up, all the events of tonight whirring through my mind.

How fiercely Duke embraced me in the diner, how tenderly he held my hand in the car – and don’t even get me started on the sincerity with which he called me beautiful .

That’s going to be etched into my memory forever.

It’s hard not to read into any of that. Especially when I’ve never seen Duke show that level of emotion before.

It was so palpable, I could almost taste it.

‘I’ll grab you a hoodie, something a bit more comfortable,’ Duke says as he finishes sliding his jacket off my shoulders. There’s a sudden hoarseness to his voice, like he’s been breathing heavily. ‘Make yourself at home.’

I wait until he heads off into what I assume is his bedroom. Rubbing a hand up and down my arm, I wander around the apartment, admiring the art more closely, and snooping as much as I can into the paintings he’s been working on. Usually, I only get a glimpse at his talent through napkin sketches.

What becomes glaringly obvious though as I saunter further inside is that Duke left in a rush.

There’s a half-full glass of something on the coffee table, a pizza box that’s still got two slices and a crust in it sitting beside the drink, and papers scattered across the surface.

Even through the gap in the door to his bedroom, I can see him rushing to close drawers that had been left open, and tidy clothes from the floor.

Because he came to rescue me.

A weight pulls down on my heart at the thought.

And then it tugs even harder when I filter through three smaller canvases with portraits of a woman I’m certain I recognise.

In the first, the woman’s smile is framed by her short black curly hair, while cerulean and cobalt strokes paint an aura around her, lighter shades used to give her brown skin an almost otherworldly glow.

But as the paintings progress, the colours become darker, the paint strokes messier, and the portrait more abstract.

Where the first portrayed clear features and minor details, like the swirls of browns in her irises, the others lose their sharpness and clarity.

The third is mostly made of mottled shapes and heavy brush strokes that just about give off the impression of a person—

‘My mom,’ Duke’s voice rumbles behind me.

Immediately, I whip round to find him leaning against his bedroom door frame, arms folded, the hoodie clutched in one hand.

One corner of his mouth twitches as he glances between me and the paintings.

When I decipher his softened stance and gaze as confirmation that he’s comfortable with me looking at the paintings, I inspect them closer.

To appreciate the jarring sensation of experiencing such joy from the first painting, only to have it shadowed by the growing melancholy of the others. ‘They’re beautiful – she’s beautiful.’

‘She was.’ The pad of his footsteps get closer.

I expected him to stay by his bedroom, keeping a distance between us like usual.

But he’s suddenly behind me, broad chest faintly touching my shoulder every time he inhales.

His scent is everywhere, each breath a little rougher as I drink it down.

‘A great artist too – my grandmother has a lot of her paintings up in the house. It’s where I get my creative side from, I guess. ’

‘She taught at the high school, right?’ I check. ‘Art?’

‘Yeah. My dad taught there too. History. That’s how they met.’ A brief, almost inaudible chuckle comes from him. ‘You would’ve liked my mom, I think. Our house was full of colour growing up – must have had that same eye for interior design as you.’

Duke unexpectedly runs his fingers down my arm until it meets the painting I’m holding, fingers curling around mine over the canvas edge, making my breath hitch. A shiver ripples down my spine, my breath threatening to never release. He’s touching me in so many new ways tonight …

But what shocks me the most, is that Duke doesn’t put the canvas back as I expected.

Instead, he swallows audibly before he explains, ‘They’re supposed to represent my memories of her.

I used to be able to remember her face so vividly, but as the years go by, I’ve struggled to recall the smaller details.

Like I know she had black hair, but I can’t quite picture how the curls fell anymore.

I’m pretty certain most of my memories now are actually constructed from photos.

It was the same with my dad, but I was only one when he passed so I know nothing there is real memories. ’

My knowledge of Duke’s family is built from small town gossip. Not even from Wyatt, his closest friend, because I’m certain those two rarely talk about their feelings. To be given the privilege to hear the truth directly from Duke’s mouth is … extraordinary.

‘This first one—’ I let him retrieve it from my grasp ‘—is actually based on a photograph my grandmother has in her house. The others are what my mind could conjure up with what’s left of my memories.’

I’m all too aware of how rare this moment is, how I don’t want it to end – just like that little snippet of his fear he shared with me before the Ferris wheel. Because how often does Duke have anyone just listen to him, like he does for everyone else?

‘You should display them,’ I suggest.

Duke shrugs as he slots the canvas back with the others.

The slice of moonlight shining through the back window catches in his eyes, the deep umber suddenly sparkling with cracked memories and reminiscent joy.

‘I don’t know … I just do it because it makes me feel better to paint.

I’m not really sure how to deal with my grief, otherwise.

Never got taught beyond a therapist’s office. But painting … it works for me.’

He lets out a breathy laugh as he turns to gesture to the rest of the paintings littered around his apartment. ‘Hence the overflowing collection.’

A grin spreads across my face as I spin to face him properly, grateful for the small, vulnerable insight into his life I’m not sure I would have gotten had I never come here tonight. ‘Thank you, for telling me.’

Duke nods softly, keeping his head tilted down at me as his eyes immediately flick to my mouth. His tongue slowly wets his bottom lip, only emphasising how full his lips are—

‘Arms up,’ he suddenly instructs, holding out the hoodie.

I obediently do as he says. The silence in the room swarms me. Carefully, Duke slides the sleeves of the hoodie over each of my hands, pulling my arms through with such care, it makes me feel invaluable. A reminder that the harsh hold Levi had on me earlier was nothing close to what I deserve.

You’re the smartest girl – no, person – I know, Cherry. You could move mountains, I’m telling you.

There was always a part of me that feared Duke’s gentleness with me, aside from the occasional teasing, only reflected how fragile he saw me.

I’ve never been able to scorch the day of my fall from my mind, caught up on the safety I felt in his arms, while I always wondered if that day solidified how he’d always see me – a girl in need of saving.