He clearly wants to pat himself on the back, but is, frustratingly, not double-jointed. So I do it for him. And with the piping-hot, delicious food on my plate, I suddenly realize I’m starving. I haven’t been eating well over the last few days. I start devouring the meal, washing it down with the refreshing sangria.
Devlin and I eat in silence. The only sound in the dining room is our utensils clinking and something that’s soulful and jazzy from speakers, which are playing at low volume. It’s nice to be able to just rest and let myself recharge, although part of me wonders why he’s so quiet. Devlin likes to talk.
Maybe he stunned himself into silence with his cooking. It’s a definite possibility.
Once I’m finished, I sit back. “Thank you. That was great.”
“You’re welcome.”
“So. What’s going on?”
“Huh?”
“Well, you aren’t doing this for no reason, are you?” I drain the rest of my sangria. “I’m not going to be upset or anything…within reason. You can tell me.”
His jaw drops. “You think I did all this because I screwed something up?”
Hmm. That does sound sort of accusatory. “Not that you screwed up. But that something’s gone screwy.” There. All neutral. I even add a friendly smile.
“Okay, first of all, when I screw up something, I usually buy jewelry. Not that I’ve had to do much of that. Just saying.”
Rock stars must do the “I’m doing something nice for you because I did something bad behind your back” thing by spending a lot of money. “Okay. I’ll file that away for future reference.”
“I cooked because I was wondering what’s up with you.” He says it calmly enough. But there’s a thread of concern underneath.
“Me?” I blink. “This is about me?”
“Come on. You haven’t been sleeping well, and you’re constantly distracted and unfocused.”
My face heats, and it isn’t from the alcohol. Unlike my ex-boyfriends, Devlin knows when I’m thinking about something else when we’re having sex, before lust overwhelms me enough to cut my thinking off completely.
He continues, “You also basically quit eating, which is, you know, worrisome. I mean, I like your body the way it is. I don’t want you to diet or any of that stuff because some fashion magazine says you need to be a certain size or whatever.”
“I’m not dieting. And I sometimes have insomnia.”
“But why? You were sleeping fine before.”
“Stress…?” That’s such a neutral answer to the question. And I shouldn’t have made that a question.
“So you got stressed out having dinner with Tasha? Because that’s when it started.”
“No, no, nothing like that. It’s work.”
“Okay. What about work?”
I sigh. He’s like a dog with a bone—he’s not going to let it go. I need to pick my words carefully so I can tell him without mentioning my condition. “This billionaire has paid me a lot of money to do three commissioned pieces. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize he’d want a portrait for the second one. And I don’t do portraits.”
“So why don’t you just tell him?” Devlin says, like he has no idea why that simple solution hasn’t occurred to me.
“I did. I said it’d be better to do something else because portraits aren’t my specialty, but I don’t think he believes me. You see, I had a self-portrait at my show in New York.”
Devlin tilts his head slightly, then snaps his fingers. “I remember! It’s that picture with the sort of generic features, right?”
He saw that? “Yes.”
“See, that’s why I didn’t know you were Max’s sister. That painting could’ve been anybody.” Devlin leans back. “Why’d you do it like that when you’re so much prettier?”
I flush, pleased and dismayed at the same time. “Thank you, but the self-portrait wasn’t really about me, you know, like…physically. It was more of a mood portrait.”