He leans forward in his chair. “So, Miss Gray—”

“It’s Mia. You can call me Mia.”

“Okay, Mia.” That smile is lethal. “Mia, how long have you been working in that gallery?”

“Weeks. It hasn’t been that long.”

“Did you just move here?”

“I did.” I pause as the waitress sets down our coffees. “I came from Boston.”

“What’s in Portland that can’t be done in Boston?” he asks. “Boyfriend?”

“Not at all. If I had a boyfriend, I wouldn’t have accepted your offer for coffee.”

“Fair enough.” He looks into my eyes. “So, what is it then?”

“Art.”

He raises his eyebrow. “You actually know art or are you still learning?”

“I know it, and I do some of my own.”

Intrigued, he crosses his legs. “Monet or Manet??”

“Monet. Sharper images.”

“Post-modernism or modernism.”

“Modernism—everything post has hints of what came before it.”

He smiles and launches into a series of other art questions, and we go back and forth about our favorite artists. Even when we make it back to the gallery for the tour, my explanations for the collection are only side-notes to our art conversation.

When we reach the final piece and my manager lets me know she’ll be locking up in twenty, something comes over me.

“Would you like to continue this at my place?” I ask him.

“Definitely.”

I give a shorthand account of the last piece, even though I really didn’t need to, and the two of us leave the gallery. He offers to drive, and I almost turn him down, but I decide to go with it.

We still can’t stop talking in the car, and for a split second, I think this could go somewhere. This is exactly what I need.

When we arrive at the condo, I open the door and immediately run into Dean.

“Get out of the way,” he says, motioning for me to move past him. “I have somewhere to be.”

“Good,” I say, and Trevor steps beside me.

“Is this your roommate?” Trevor asks me, but then he extends his hand to Dean. “I’m Trevor.”

“Dean.” Dean looks back and forth between the two of us, and then he steps back to let us inside. Instead of leaving, though, he takes off his jacket and puts it back on the coat rack.

“I thought you said you had somewhere to be,” I say.

“I thought I did, too...” He glares at me, but I turn away.

“Anyway.” I direct my attention to Trevor. “Would you like anything to drink? Water? Beer? Juice?”

“I’ll have a beer, thank you.”

“I’ll get it.” Dean says, smiling. “And for you, Mia?” There’s a sick little gleam in his eye.

“I don’t need you to get anything for us.” I step past him and into the kitchen. I quickly grab two beers and show Trevor to the couch. I sit right next to him.

Dean takes a seat across from us in the recliner.

I ignore him and face Trevor. “What were you saying about the eighteenth century impressionists?”

“Just that I thought they were over-rated. Le Blanc wasn’t the best of that time, like the historians like to say.”

“Le Blanc was from the nineteenth century,” Dean says. “And he was the best of that era.”

Trevor crosses his legs and smiles, clearly not offended at all. “You’re into art, too?”

“Some,” he says, his eyes meet mine and I glare right back at him.

“Oh, well that’s great. Where did you study?”

“Western Peak,” he says, and I remember wanting to ask him about that. If I didn’t hate him so much, that is.

“Ah,” Trevor says. “Western Peak is where some of the best artists go.”

“Where they’re supposed to go...” His eyes are still on mine.

“Where did you go, Mia?” Trevor asks.

“Harvard.”

Dean’s eyes widen briefly, but the shock dissipates within seconds.

“Well,” Trevor says, opening his beer. “Good artists go there, too, I guess. You mentioned that you paint, Mia? Do you have any of your stuff here?”

“Yeah, I can show it to you, if you follow me.” I stand up and Dean stands up, too.

Trevor is still completely unfazed, so I decide to ignore Dean.

I walk over to the office-room Eric lets me use and open the door. I’m proud of myself for actually cleaning it up earlier this morning.

“All of my newest pieces are on the easels,” I say, hitting the lights. “The older pieces are on the walls and the window sills. I have more in storage and in my bedroom, since I don’t have enough space to fit them all here.”

“These are amazing.” Trevor steps in front of my earlier high school pieces. “How old were you when you painted this?”

“Fifteen.”

“Wow...” He slips an arm around my waist. “What about this blue and silver one? What’s the inspiration behind that?”

“A boyfriend she did wrong,” Dean says, walking over. “Isn’t that this one, Mia? Aren’t those your high school colors?”

Do not punch him...Do not punch him...

Trevor looks at me, smiling. “Is that true? Are you an expressionist after all?”

“She’s more than an expressionist,” Dean says. “You’re the tenth guy this week she’s brought here and showed this room to, so you may end up in one of her pieces as well. Here.” He takes a condom out of his pocket and gives it to Trevor. “Just in case you left yours at home. I always make sure her dates have one. I’m that type of guy.”

Trevor chokes on his beer.

“I’ll leave you two alone now.” Dean smiles at us and walks away.

WHAT THE FUCK...

“It’s um, getting pretty late,” Trevor says.

“It’s only six o’clock.”

“Is it?” He steps back. “Already?”

“Trevor, please don’t tell me you believe anything that idiot just said.”

“Not at all.” He tosses his beer can into the trash. “I’ll see you around.”

I don’t bother leading him to the front door. I wait until I hear it shut and then I count down from ten before rushing out and finding Dean in the kitchen.

“What the fuck was that, Dean?” I yell at him. “Why the fuck did you do that?”

“Because he’s not your type,” he says flatly. “I was doing you a favor.”

“All the women you’ve had over are your type? Do you see me interfering with them?”

“No, but you’ve wanted to.”

“I have not.”

“Keep lying to yourself, Mia.” He turns to face me. “I fucking know you.”

“You used to know me—before I hated you for ruining my life. That’s when you knew me. Not now, and the next time I bring a guy home, I dare you to run him away.”

“You’ll do that all your own, but is that a threat?”

“It’s whatever you want it to be.” I poke his chest with my finger. Hard. “And I swear to God—”

“You swear to God, what?” He grabs my hand and holds it above my head. “You swear to God that—what, Mia?”

Our faces are so close that if we move just a bit, I’d bite his lips off.

“I fucking hate you, Dean,” I say, my heart is my throat. “I hate you and if I had known that you lived here with my brother, I would never have come here. I was a lot happier thinking you didn’t exist anymore. I. Hate. You.”

He drops my hand and I step back.

Tears are forming in my eyes, so I turn away and rush to my room. I make sure to slam the door as hard as I can as the end to our conversation.

Chapter 19

MIA

I’m starting to think that telling someone that you hate him is the fastest road to instant karma. It’s been more than a week since Dean and I have spoken to each other, and I have yet to have a decent day.

Despite the fact that we’ve been avoiding the hell out of each other, and we’ve stopped playing the “I’ll fuck with your food, since you fuck with mine” game, I’ve woken up every morning since, feeling awful.

My tours at the gallery have been beyond subpar, and I’m grateful that my manager has been at a conference, because otherwise, I’m sure she would fire me.  Eric hasn’t been around much at all, thanks to an influx of high profile clients making insane demands, and Autumn randomly decided to take an international trip with Jacob, so I have no one to talk to. (Well, there’s my mom, but she never counts.)