Page 59 of Knox

Help him understand me a little more?

Ugh… why do I even care if that asshole understands me?

He kisses the hell out of me and then runs away?!

Who the fuck does that?!

One second he’s pinned me down, devouring my mouth while his hips thrust deliciously against mine, and the next second, poof!

The bastard vanishes from the face of the earth for two days, leaving me with nothing but anxiety and need.

God, I hate him.

Though if I’m being completely honest with myself, what I hate the most is how he messes with my head.

He already made me waste days thinking about him, wanting him, and worst of all, second-guessing myself.

I am freaking Cillian Everett Harrington-Hale.

I don’t do second-guessing.

Fuck him…

I check the painting behind me, write “Center Wing” on a pink Post-it, and paste it onto the frame of an original Degas.

“Need any help, Cillian?” Alistair asks, walking up beside me.

“You know about art?” I look at him, unsure if he would know what to do, and he laughs.

“I learned my colors in the basement of the Louvre, mate.”

“Fine, Mr. Posh.” I separate the stack of adhesive notes, passing the yellow and blue pads over to him. “Take the yellow ones and label the Impressionist portfolios along the western wall for the private sale. The blue ones are for the sculptures.”

Alistair takes the notes and starts placing the markers exactly where they belong according to what I told him.

Would he kill me if I asked to hire him as my assistant?

Probably…

Together, we tag everything we see, writing it down and arranging it in a virtual view of the villa on the island.

Once I am done with the paintings, I go to the statues and stop cold as soon as I see a Greek warrior. The statue is huge, carved with broad shoulders, a muscled chest, and a posture so strong that it looks identical to Knox’s build.

I press my fingers against the marble and trail the muscles of the leg, wondering how it would feel to touch his.

Damn it…

My skin shivers as I remember the weight of Knox pinning me against the desk, the rough scrape of his calloused hands trailing across my chest, and the feeling of his lips crashing down onto mine.

I want to touch him again.

But I also kinda want to punch him in the jaw for messing with my head this badly.

“So… have you?” Alistair asks, and I am so lost in my thoughts of Knox that I completely miss whatever he said.

“I’m… sorry, what?”

Alistair chuckles. “I asked if you had ever bought one of the paintings or sculptures for yourself before sending it to the auction? Because honestly, I would have taken this Monet home without a single shred of guilt.”