The Consequence of Loving Me: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Aftershock Series Book 1) by Kat Singleton

Author:Kat Singleton [Singleton, Kat]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-03-19T05:00:00+00:00

22

Veronica

I paint all night. My heart pours out onto the countless canvases I fill.

Green eyes.

Blue eyes.

Eyebrow scars.

Lip scars.

My mind doesn’t even keep track of the time. The only things I focus on are my paintbrushes and the canvas. Every feeling overtaking me is added to the canvas. The hate, despair, guilt, loathing, pity, love, want, hope, all painted in many different colors.

The shades of my emotions.

After I run out of paint, I finally step back and look around at them. They’re scattered all over my bedroom. It looks like a gallery of my life. Of my obsessions.

Of imperfections.

And for once, mine are included on display. It’s odd. I’ve always been so used to capturing others’ imperfections that it never even occurred to me to paint my own. But after speaking with Maverick, I felt the impulse to capture my own. To put them on display—as my decision, the way I wanted them put out there.

I fall asleep long enough to allow the paint to dry. Too exhausted, emotionally and physically, to even change out of my clothes beforehand that are covered in paint.

When I wake up the next morning, I realize there’s paint splattered all over my room. On the walls, the dresser, the door. All over my sheets after I fell asleep with wet paint on my clothing.

I’m too desperate to get to Clementine’s gallery to care. I quickly put on new clothes and carry all the canvases I can manage up the stairs and to my car.

I’m busy putting the first load of canvases into my trunk when Maverick runs up the sidewalk. It’s apparent he’s just coming home from a run. Sweat drips down his forehead, even though the November breeze is frigid.

“What are these?” He pulls a headphone out of his ear, stepping right next to me to peer into my trunk.

Facing up, is a picture I painted of myself. It isn’t one that made me go too deep into my emotions. It’s of my back. Above my left hip sits a birthmark that’s large and two shades darker than the rest of my creamy white complexion. “My paintings. My imperfections.”

He isn’t even looking at me right now, his eyes taking in every curve of my artwork. Yet it feels more intimate than any other time he’s ever looked at me. The way his eyes follow every brushstroke, it makes me squirm.

“Hey, could you help me bring the rest up?” I ask him. I can’t believe I’m about to let him see what I painted—to see that I painted him. Maybe I’m just too burnt out to care.

All I need right now is to get these paintings—these imperfections—out into the world. Which means I need to get them to Clementine’s right this moment.

He nods, gesturing for me to lead the way.

We’re silent as we walk through the house and into the basement. It briefly occurs to me that I haven’t seen Aspen or Selma in days.

When we enter my room, Maverick abruptly stops. His eyes dart around the room like he doesn’t know where to look first.

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