“Hopefully some point soon,” I said. “I’m really tired of pink and I’m pretty sure I could vomit unicorns on demand.”

He laughed. “Yeah, me, too.”

Stepping up to the wall, I traced my finger along the sketch, thinking about what it would look like when he was done. “She’s going to love it.”

“That’s the goal,” he said. “She told me that she wants to look at it and remember she has a daddy when I’m not around.”

Ouch.

“She loves you.”

“I know.”

Turning to look at him, I cocked my head.

“I’m really tired,” I said. “So I don’t have the energy to play games right now. Are we going to fight?”

He shook his head. “No. I was pissed at you last night. For a while I figured you were probably off fucking some other guy, then I realized how stupid that was. London wouldn’t tell me where you were—Reese must’ve mentioned what happened up in Callup, because she treated me like a serial killer. Just in case you ever wonder whose side she’s on . . .”

I smiled.

“I got lucky with her,” I acknowledged. “When my own mom bailed, she took me in, just like she took in Jessica. She’s been a grandma to Izzy, a mother to me . . . but I’ll never understand why Mom left. I look at Isabella and can’t wrap my head around it, because I’d die before disappearing on her.”

Like you did in prison.

“Are you ever going to forgive me?” he asked softly, catching my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Sometimes it feels like you hate me out of habit. It’s still between us—that chemistry. Sex isn’t the problem. And I’m a good dad to Isabella. I help you out as much as you’ll let me. I fuckin’ hate your job at the ER, but I’m not telling you to stop doing it because I know it’s important to you. So why does it always have to be a fight, Mel?”

Shaking my head, I leaned forward into his chest. His arms came around me, rubbing my back. It felt good. Safe.

“It scares me,” I confessed.

“What?”

“That I can care about you this much. You’re a mystery to me—you play with our daughter, you paint her pink motorcycles. You even let her dress you up like a fairy that one time and had a tea party with her.”

He groaned.

“How did you find out about that?”

“She told me,” I said, biting back a smile. “And she drew a picture. I took it to work and showed everyone. But I think you should be thanking me, because I seriously considered giving it to Reese.”

He groaned again, his hand running up my spine to the back of my neck. The muscles there were tight from a long night of work, and as he dug his knuckles in deep, I sighed with pleasure.

“So what’s the problem?”

“You beat Aaron up,” I said softly. “You really hurt him.”

“You could’ve gone to jail as his accomplice. He deserved it.”

“You didn’t know that when you attacked him—that was about you being jealous. That’s fucked up, Painter.”

“Probably,” he admitted. “And I was pissed at you last night, too, but I got over it. It’s true I lost my shit, but it’s also true that I don’t do it very often.”

“You could go back to jail.”

“You could get stabbed by a crazy guy in the ER.”

Pulling away, I frowned up at him. “That’s different. I’m doing something that helps people, remember? You’re . . . running drugs or something. I don’t even know what you do—you won’t tell me.”

His face grew serious.

“Mel, I’m not going to lie to you about who I am,” he said slowly. “I don’t always follow the law, and when my brothers need me, I’m gonna take their backs. But I’m an artist—that’s what I do for a living. I’m not running guns, I’m not selling drugs. I paint fucking pictures, and then I sell them to rich assholes so they can brag about my ‘primitive art’ at their cocktail parties. I’ll take their money with a smile, pay my club dues, and then I’ll always come home to you and Izzy. I love you.”

I closed my eyes, tasting the words. We’d known each other so long, been through so much. He’d always been there, even when he wasn’t. My life had revolved around Painter for six years, from little girl crush to need to hatred to . . . this.

“I love you, too,” I admitted slowly, opening my eyes to take him in.

He cocked his head, studying my face.

“Usually people don’t look so unhappy when they say that for the first time,” he said.

“Usually people get to sleep at some point, but it’s been twenty-four hours,” I replied quietly. “Like I said, I’m too tired to fight, so might as well lay it all out there.”

“Does that mean you’ll tell me this was all some kind of sleep-deprived hallucination at some point?”

I considered the question, then shook my head.

“No, I’ve loved you for a long time. I tried to move on, but I can’t. Still kind of pisses me off, because there’s all kinds of things I don’t like about you . . . but it is what it is.”

“Some guys would be offended by a declaration like that,” Painter said. “But I think I’m gonna count this as a win.”

I gave him a smile, then pulled away, looking around the room. There were cans of paint everywhere, big and small. All different colors.

“Where did this all come from?” I asked, waving my hand toward the mess.

“Oh, I picked them up here and there,” he said, shrugging. “Been planning the mural for a while. Last night I was pissed off, and when I get pissed I usually fight or paint. I already did enough fighting this week.”

“How did you figure out that I was working?”

“Jessica,” he said. “I called her.”

That surprised me. “Jessica hates you.”

“I know,” he said. “She didn’t want to talk to me at first. I may have threatened her a little bit.”

My eyes widened. “Did you hurt her?”

He gave a low laugh, shaking his head.

“Not that kind of threat.”

“What kind of threat?” I asked, eyes wide.

“I threatened to call someone,” he said. “Maybe send him some pictures, that’s all. You don’t want to know—trust me.”

“Is this about all those years ago, when you and Jess—”

“No,” he said firmly, cutting me off. “It’s nothing to worry about. Just let it go—when she’s ready to tell you, she will. Or not. Either way, I used it against her last night, and I don’t regret that at all. I was still pissed with you, by the way—but after a few hours of painting I got over it, and then I was just relieved you weren’t with another guy.”

I studied his face, taking in the high cheekbones, his crystal blue eyes, and pale skin. “We’re really lucky Izzy got my skin. You never tan.”

He laughed again. “You’re punch-drunk.”

I shrugged, then sat down suddenly. Okay, “sat” was probably a stretch—it was more like my legs gave out, but with a controlled landing. Painter lowered himself next to me.

Looking at the cans of paint, I saw a small red one not far away and grabbed it.

“Do you remember that night you taught me how to paint ladybugs?”

“Vividly. One of the best nights of my life.”

“Do you think I could paint one on Izzy’s wall?”

Painter stared at me, assessing. “You know, with anyone else I’d say yes, but I’m kind of scared you’ll give her nightmares. Zombie mutant ladybugs or something. Maybe if we did it together?”

I frowned, but he had a point.

“Okay, show me.”

“Sure,” he said, glancing around. There was a pile of smaller brushes near the wall. He leaned over on his knees to grab one, then sat back down. Prying off the lid, he opened the can and handed me the brush.

“Let me find something for you to practice on.”

I dipped the brush into the paint, letting the bright red drip slowly from the bristles back into the can. So much had happened over the years together—hard to wrap my head around all of it.

“I’d do it again, you know,” I said suddenly. Painter glanced at me, a question in his eyes.

“All of it,” I clarified. “I’d do it all over again. Us. I can’t imagine life without Izzy. Having her made me stronger—I don’t think I’d have gotten this far if it wasn’t for her. It was worth it, even all the fighting with you.”