The throbbing in her temple intensified. “Lone Wolves?”
“I—”
“Sabrina, I’m back—oh.” Cross had materialized again, this time, just by the door. “Silke, I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”
The redhead got up. “I only thought to bring Sabrina some clothes and a couple of books to keep her occupied. Though I suppose that’s what you brought along?” she asked, staring at the large bag in his hands.
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’ll be off.” She patted Cross on the arm. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”
“Sure, Silke.”
“I like her,” Sabrina found herself admitting once Silke was gone. Then she blinked.
“What’s wrong?” He crossed the room in a few strides. “Sabrina?”
“I just …” How could she explain it to him? “Since the accident, I’ve had this condition, you see. I get anxiety every time I have to leave the house and meet new people. My chest tightens, and my palms get sweaty just at the thought of having to cross from the front door or meeting a neighbor in my elevator. I can count the number of times I’ve left the house in the last year on one hand, and I haven’t interacted with anyone except for Dad or Barbara. And yet …” Her head pulsed and throbbed again. “In the last twelve hours, I’ve not only left my house, but now I’m in another state and I’ve met three—er, two new people.”
“How are you feeling?”
“That’s just it … I don’t feel nervous or anxious at all.” It really was puzzling. “I mean, I do have a headache right now, but I didn’t turn into a nervous wreck meeting Ransom or Silke.”
A strange expression flickered briefly on his face. “I can get you some pain killers for your headache.”
“No, it’s fine.” She waved her hand at him. “But, what did you bring me?”
With a wave of his hand, he cleared the table, then placed the large canvas bag on top. “Since you don’t have anything else to do, I thought I’d get you some supplies.”
“Supplies?” She opened the bag and let out a small cry. “Oh, my God!” Reaching in, she pulled out some tubes of paint. “These are my brand too!” Of course he knew what brand she used. She rooted in the bag to take out brushes, a palette knife, linseed oil, paint thinner, and a few other essentials. “Cross, I don’t know what to say. Thank you.” She clutched the supplies to her chest.
“The easel’s outside.” He jerked his thumb toward the door. “And I’ll get you anything else you need.”
“Oh, this is really …” He was standing so close to her, she could smell his delicious, chocolatey smell. How could someone smell exactly like her favorite cookie, anyway?
“One more thing.” Cross reached into the bag and took out a small electronic device and a speaker. “I know you like to listen to music when you’re in your studio, so I got you this.”
“That—wait. How did you know I like to listen to music?” She took the offered music player and pressed the play button.
A flush crept across his cheeks. “You … you invited me to watch you paint in your studio. After that day in the park.”
“I did?”
He nodded. “When you finished painting in the park, you gave me your number. I messaged you a few days later and then you invited me to your place. You were playing cello music. Said it’s the only thing you could listen to while you painted.”
Now she felt heat creeping into her cheeks. No one had ever watched her paint, except when she was studying. It had felt oddly intimate. A lightheaded feeling passed over her. “I can’t believe …” She broke off as music began to play from the speakers. Familiar music. “Le Cygne,” she breathed.
“The Swan,” he added.
“Well, it’s about a swan dying,” she said wryly. “The Greeks and Romans thought the swan was the most beautiful creature on earth. It’s mostly silent but—”
“When the swan is about die, it supposedly sings the most beautiful song,” he completed, as those stormy blue-green eyes looked at her, seemingly seeing right into her soul. “You thought it was wonderful. And I must have looked at you in horror, but you smiled and told me, ‘Everyone dies, Cross. But isn’t it lovely that in the end, that swan made beautiful art after being silent her entire life?’”
“How …” But nothing else came out of her mouth as she stared at him, listening to the cello swell in the final bars of the song before concluding and fading out. God, how could he possibly know all that, unless …
A new song began to play on the speakers. She stood up as she recognized the arpeggiating G major chords. “That’s—” She stopped as her head throbbed. But she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Her vision blurred. Cross was saying something—calling her name, maybe—but he, along with the rest of the world, faded away.
Three years ago …
“Cello music is all you ever listen to while you paint?” Cross asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I don’t know … something about the strings … it’s so soothing and relaxing.”
He glanced down at her music player. “Hopefully you’ve got other songs that doesn’t involve animals dying?”
She chuckled. “No more swan songs, I promise.”
“I’ll let you get back to your work, then.” He strode over to the windows. “What?” Cross asked.
“Mm-hmm?” She was sitting down at her stool, facing her current work in progress, but for some reason, she couldn’t keep her mind on the painting, not when her gaze kept going to Cross. The way the sunlight was playing off his golden hair was distracting, among other things.
“Why are you looking at me?”
“What? Nothing.” She ducked behind the canvas, hoping he wouldn’t see her blush. What had possessed her to invite him here? While she really did enjoy his company at the park while she painted, she would never in a million years have thought
