He was quieter than usual. Both hands were glued to the steering wheel. Had he decided she was more trouble than she was worth? Or maybe it was the kiss.
No. That wasn’t a kiss. Kisses were questions. Kisses started tentatively and gradually intensified, with plenty of time to draw conclusions in between. What happened in that shed was a demand. When Nathan pulled away, she thought it was because of the sirens. But now, in the safety of the car, he still wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“What were you doing at that party?” she asked. Sofia’s big events were very exclusive. Distant maybe-cousins weren’t usually on the guest list.
He kept his eyes forward as he pulled into the parking lot. “Someone invited me.”
His studio apartment was bigger than she’d imagined. A large kitchen with stainless steel appliances took up one corner. The living area was filled with dark wood tables and brown leather furniture. A king-sized platform bed took up the rest of the room, covered in white linens he’d tucked into hospital corners. She remembered how in the garden shed he’d pitched forward, both hands gripping her waist as if he was seconds from lowering her to the ground. Nathan caught her staring at the bed, and their eyes connected for a blistering moment before he looked away.
The whole place was neat—bookshelves arranged by color and size, open kitchen shelves with identical plates. The only clutter was a pile of sketchbooks scattered over the kitchen counter. A large wooden drafting table sat empty against the wall.
“You’re an artist.” It came out like an accusation and she tried to soften her tone. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Nathan tossed his keys into a small bowl near the door. “Because I’m not an artist.”
He moved to the counter and gathered the sketchbooks into a neater stack. Watching his slow, methodical movements made her want to throw something to reclaim his attention. “That is a five-thousand-dollar drafting table.”
He shoved the sketchbooks out of sight. “How do you know how much it costs? Are you an artist?”
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
She raised an eyebrow. “That. Answer a question with a question.”
“Is that what I’m doing?”
“Yes. Or are you only this way with me?”
He stared at the table. “It was a birthday gift from my brother. I’ve never used it.”
“But you kept it.”
“It was a gift.”
The table obviously had history, which was none of her business. Despite shoving her tongue down his throat thirty minutes ago, she needed to remember that she barely knew this man. Nathan had an entire life she knew nothing about. He was entitled to keep some things private.
“I studied art history in college,” she said. “Black American portraiture. One of my professors owned the same table.”
“So you’re a photographer.”
“Yes. No. I used to be. Now, it’s barely a hobby.” She bit her lip and scanned the room, searching for a different topic. “Did you decorate this place yourself?”
He frowned. “It’s not decorated.”
Rachel pointed to a throw pillow on his couch. “That’s not functional.”
“Are pillows ever?”
She smiled. He was starting to sound like himself again. “Ask me in ten years when you need five different sizes to avoid getting a crick in your neck.” She leaned against the sofa. “Do you want to ask about the car?”
Nathan tensed. “Not really.”
She understood his reluctance. She’d been a chaos demon since the day they met. Drunken confessions. Needy late-night phone calls. Now she’d committed vandalism right in front of him. “It was Matt’s.”
“I assumed.”
“You saw him at the party?”
He unfolded his arms. “With the woman? Yeah, I did.”
“A warning would have been nice, a note—he loves notes—letting me know his girlfriend would be there.” Her eyes were drawn to a loose thread on one of his pillows. She clasped her hands and looked away.
“Do you still love him?”
His voice was gruff and rushed in a way that implied there was a right answer. Maybe that’s what was on his mind. “No,” she said, handing over another secret buried so deep, she’d only just realized it was true. “And he’s not why I kissed you.”
“No one would blame you for wanting revenge.”
“You’re not revenge.” She paused. “The car, that was revenge. And not because I still love him. I’m jealous of him. I always have been.”