I lean my head in close to her. Really close. Jenna’s lashes flutter, with wide eyes stunned. An extensive grin spreads across my face. “Ah, but if my memory serves me correctly, I know exactly how you taste.” Her breath catches; she seems to be at a loss for words. Score. I lift my hand and twirl one of the paintbrushes I’m still holding. “And it seems to me that I just learned you like to paint.” Her eyes narrow and her nostrils lightly flare as she snatches the brush out of my hand. She opens her mouth to say something but shuts it when we hear someone else call my name.

“Logan?” Bryson walks up beside us. Eyes still on Jenna, I straighten my shoulders, flash her a knowing grin, and then turn to face my cousin.

“What’s up?”

He raises a questioning brow and glances over at Jenna. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Let’s get to work.” I clasp his shoulder and start walking, guiding him toward the site.

“What was that about?” he asks quietly.

I turn my head and look at Jenna who’s still standing there breathing heavily with the box glued to her hip. I wink at her and turn right back around. “Nothing. I was just helping her with a few things she accidently dropped.”

He grips my shoulder and leans in. “Logan, not here. This is work. Keep it like that. You understand?”

I shrug off his hold. I know what he means. I don’t like it, but I understand. “Yeah, I understand.”

It’s not like we’d have more than just that one kiss on her front porch anyway.

chapter 4

Jenna

Logan looks back at me as he walks away with the other contractor. He shoots me a wink before turning his attention back to the path. “Nothing. I was just helping her with a few things she accidently dropped,” I hear him say.

Exactly. Nothing is going on between us, and Logan better keep that in mind the next time he invades my personal space. A few days ago, I asked for it; I knew what I was getting myself into. Well, I wasn’t expecting for his kiss to be so powerful and scorching hot. Still, that was on my terms. I was in control. Sort of. I couldn’t foresee that I would enjoy the taste of him, the smell of him, the way he held me firmly against his chest, how strong his arms felt wrapped securely around me, or how, for a short moment within that one kiss, I forgot who I was. The world around us was completely still. I was lost in the arms of a complete stranger. That’s what bothers me most: him. He bothers me. I know nothing about him, so how the hell could he make me feel so alive, so at peace, so…safe?

It’s infuriating, not to mention unrealistic. The whole thing must have been a fluke brought on by the anxiety of everything that occurred prior to seeing him: the scene in Dr. Rosario’s office the day before, losing the bracelet, him diving into the pool, Matthew walking up when he was the last person in the world I wanted to see. Logan was there, and I took advantage of that by kissing him. But I kissed him to get rid of Matthew; I didn’t realize kissing him would rid me of all my thoughts as well.

The stubble of his growing beard was rough, yet the kiss felt soft.

His arms were confident, yet I felt vulnerable in his hold.

His touch was unfamiliar, yet it felt right within the split seconds of that kiss.

The memory shivers through me. I shake it off, adjust the box in my hands, and continue on my route toward the shed.

Thirty minutes later, I’m standing before three easels, all holding a different canvas painting. Old ones, of course, since I still can’t find the desire to actually create anything. Maybe by taking time to admire my previous work, I’ll find a sense of inspiration again. All three of the pieces in front of me have a sacred place in my heart. Each has its own story, its own venture and journey, which represents a specific time and place in my life.

My eyes settle on the first one and I chuckle softly. It’s one of my very first pieces. For my tenth birthday, my father purchased my first art set, complete with several sized canvases, paintbrushes, and colors.

As any little girl would, I hugged my father tightly, shouted my thanks, and ran to my room to begin my artistic adventure. I was never a pink hearts and flowers kind of girl, so hours later, I presented him with what I thought at the time was a masterpiece. Splashes of red and orange with swirls of grey and blue colored the canvas. My father ogled the small painting with seriousness reserved for courtrooms and boardrooms. I stood before him with my hands clenched behind me, rocking in place. The waiting was excruciating for a ten-year-old. I remember thinking: Will he like it? Does he think it’s hideous? Am I good enough? Those feelings instantly faded the moment my father looked at me with wide brown eyes and a genuine smile. “It’s the best painting I’ve ever seen.”

I doubt it was the best, but it made my heart warm at the thought. A month before that same birthday, he took me to an art show where I witnessed the artist create her work from the start. Brooke was sick with a cold and unfortunately stayed home. My father held my hand as I watched closely with wide eyes from behind a rope. My mother stood beside my father with her hands folded neatly before her. The artist, in her safe, small circle, stared at the canvas intensely for what seemed like hours. Then she began to scream and shout, dipping the brushes into different colored containers and splashing them against her large canvas.

The entire drive home, my mother nagged that the show was a waste, that the performance was awkward and bizarre. I didn’t know it then, but looking back now, I guess I’m just as awkward and bizarre as that artist was. When her face grew angry as she tossed the red tint, I felt her pain. When her tear-filled eyes grew narrow as she splashed black, I felt her emptiness. When she stood before her finished work, breathing rapidly with eyes shut, blue paint still dripping off the edge of the canvas, I felt her loneliness.

I guess my first piece was an attempt to mimic hers because I felt every little bit of her emotions. As a child, I really didn’t know what those emotions meant, but I know I felt each one acutely.

As I remember every detail of the second painting, goose bumps rise on my arms and I cross them in an attempt to hug myself. This image was inspired by the first and only love of my life. Grey covers the entire sixteen by twenty inch canvas. Red with the hint of a few white strokes creates two faces—a masculine profile staring down at a feminine face. She’s afraid and slipping away from everything and everyone, but the moment her eyes lock with his, she instantly feels safe, no longer in the dark world she’s lived in all her young life.

At the age of seventeen, I was more than just the problem child that my mother couldn’t handle. Suspension after suspension from my fair share of girl fights—at the elite private school my parents sent me to—didn’t place me anywhere near the Daughter of the Year category. After a fight with Blair Bitch, my archenemy, I was sent on one of many visits to the principal’s office. My hair disheveled and face steamed in anger, I sat and waited for my turn to receive my punishment.

As I tried to calm myself, legs shaking and fingers tapping, the hall doors opened. Dark nearly black eyes pinned mine. They met me at eye level as the owner of those eyes sat beside me. He nodded, and his unkempt hair fell over his right brow. “So what’re you in for?” he asked. I answered, giving him every detail of my encounter with Blair. He burst into laughter and I joined in. The best part? He blurted, “The bitch deserved it.” The rest is history.

But history is exactly that.

I fell hard for Eric. He gave me what every girl desired—a sense of feeling loved. I had no doubt in my mind that Eric loved me. I felt it with every thread of my being. We were young and naive. I surrendered myself to him one hundred percent—mind, body, and soul. I gave him all of me. My first experiences in many aspects of my life were with Eric. His love, his touches and caresses… It was more than just the passion he poured out to me, though, that made me love him. Eric understood me, just like Brooke. He didn’t judge me or look at me how others did.

Not until he witnessed one of my episodes. It was in the beginning stage, before I even knew what was wrong with me. I was afraid, and my mind was going crazy with racing thoughts and voices. I questioned everyone that approached and everything that surrounded me. Eric couldn’t handle it. It scared the hell out of him. Instead of helping me through it, instead of showing that his love for me was true, he left me. Alone. When I was at my worst.

That was when I vowed to never let others, especially those who don’t truly know me, see me in a weak state.

I blink the blurriness out of my eyes and allow my tears to roam free. I’m alone in this shed. There’s no one watching, I remind myself. My lip begins to quiver as I edge closer to the third painting. I swallow and stare blankly at the unfinished piece. This was the last time I connected a brush to canvas. It was a month after Brooke’s death and I needed to pour out my anger the only way I knew how. But that was the day of my first hallucination.

* * *

When you lose the only person who made sense in your life, the only person who helped you fight your battles, the one who helped you with your struggles, the only person you felt sane around, your entire world comes crashing down. And that’s not even the best description. You become vacant, hollow. You can’t breathe. The world around you is a complete haze; nothing is clear anymore. You’re constantly fighting to live because you were only truly living when they were around.