Page 44 of Don't Be in Love

I held my finger up. “Oh no, no, no.” I laughed and stepped off the balcony. Returning to my drawer, I rummaged for a base and top coat.

He followed me. “You—”

“Close the balcony,” I interjected. The balcony door screeched shut.

“It’s still been two weeks since we last met—and the library doesn’t count.”

“How unfortunate.” I wiggled my fingers around in the back of the drawer.

He exhaled. “I really—God, let me help.” Then his body was leaning over mine.

My eyes could’ve been shut, and I still would’ve felt him there. Even without the rich scent of his sweaters and jackets. No contact between us was necessary. It was simplyhim. My body was so hyper aware of him. Like a page expecting the drag of ink. I could’ve been unconscious, and I would’ve felt his presence.

He followed my hand, his arm running along mine like paint on a canvas, until his fingers were on mine, feeling for the bottle. I retrieved my palm hastily. He wriggled his hand until the polish was free and in my palm.

“Thank you,” I shut the drawer, put the polish down, and picked up my milkshake. “And I can’t, I’m busy.” I took a sip.

“Really?” he asked. He glanced down at my fuzzy slippers. But it sounded more likerellywith his accent.

“Relly,” I repeated, referencing the milkshake.

He raised a brow as if to sayoh, we’re doing this now?

“Is there alcohol in this?” he questioned.

Before I could respond, he was leaning forward, strands of his hair flopping forward as he took the straw into his mouth and sipped. His Adam’s apple bobbed. Then he was standing back up with one swipe of his tongue across his lips before I could let the image simmer any longer.

“Nope, you’re just making fun of me while sober,” he commented. “Change your slippers, we’re going.”

“Going where? I just told you I’m busy.” I shook my shake.

“We’re checking something off your to-do list and going over my project because that was our deal. Go throw on some real clothes, it’s my turn to teach you something tonight.”

Dorian wouldn’t budge. Not on the walk down the stairs. Not in the car when I held the milkshake out the window after he tried stealing a sip. Not even his driver would tell me.

“You’ll enjoy it, don’t worry,” he kept saying.

So I didn’t worry or ask any more questions. Only traced the hem of my maxi skirt and tried not to feel the weight of his gaze as he watched the movement until the tires halted, stopping in front of a red brick townhouse smooshed in between identical buildings painted a variety of grays and whites.

I heard the tree’s dew drip onto the car’s roof before I noticed Dorian opening my door and reaching for my hand. In public. In the middle of London.

I remained in the car. “Anyone could see or take a picture,” I reminded him.

A photo of him leaving a cologne launch had appeared in my feed a few days ago. Days before that, a tabloid was reporting on his choice of loafers that he wore to our class on Monday. Andlast week, he was at a charity event speaking to author Bella Lola (who wasverysingle apparently).

I didn’t ask for any of this information. The public simply cared enough to put it in magazines and wake me with its middle-of-the-night notifications.

He braced the car frame above me, leaning down. There was so much leaning. So much cutting into my space. I was beginning to get dizzy.

“I haven’t forgotten. I come here every week, so it won’t be a problem. I know everyone who owns these buildings anyway.”I’d take care of it, were the words left unsaid, but I got the message.

He pushed off the car and offered his hand. Reluctantly, I accepted as he placed his other hand between my head and the car frame, stepping out.

Once we buzzed into the building, our footsteps bounced off the empty oak hallways. The sound was quickly replaced with French music and chatter as he opened the last door.

An art studio?

I breathed in the woodsy smell of charcoal pencils and took the punch of the oil paints.