CHAPTERFOUR
Abram
I dump my duffel bag on the living room couch with a tired sigh.
I still can’t believe that I let June manipulate me into coming to Hudson.
And this house.
After her damn press release, the reporters had gone wild. They’d release articles about my mysterious new artwork. They’d even given it a title “The Unveiling.”
My phone wouldn’t stop ringing. There were reporters everywhere I turned, so I had no choice at the moment but to take that damn plane she’d booked.
I’ve made up my mind, though. I’d stay here a few days and return to New York to debunk the news.
I made it clear to all of them that I would never paint again.
It’s annoying that I have to drive home that point again.
I let out a loud scoff as I open the refrigerator to grab a bottle of water and chug it down. I dump the empty bottle on the dining table and head toward my bedroom, pulling at my tie in frustration.
I can feel my irritation increase by the second as I get closer to the door.
I swore never to come back here.
What the hell am I doing?
In frustration, I stop at the door and run my hand through my hair.
I can feel a dull yet consistent thud.
A heart attack? Isn’t that a better option than the memories this place evokes?
I’d learned a long time to stop feeling...to lock my past demons in a place where they could never hurt me anymore. But coming back here may push against my ability to keep my sanity.
And admitting that to myself is the source of my growing frustration. I need to get out of here as soon as possible.
That being at first light tomorrow.
I push open the door to the bedroom, simultaneously flipping the light switch.
I stop in my tracks.
A lot doesn’t surprise me, but all thoughts fly away from my head at the red-headed, curvy beauty curled up in my bed like a furry cat.
Her long ginger curls are spread across the pillow, a beautiful contrast to the stark white she’s lying on.
I slowly walk closer to the bed, my brows knitted in a small frown.
Could she be a guest? Last I checked, this house is exclusively mine. Despite everything, Brenda wouldn’t put a guest in this house, would she?
Maybe she’s finally given up on you, a voice snarls at me in a mocking tone.
That wouldn’t be such a big surprise, except a painting of me is boldly displayed in the living room.
There’s got to be an explanation for this.
I should wake this woman up and demand an explanation, but I can’t seem to bring myself to disturb her sleep.