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“My paints.” My voice wasn’t louder than a whisper.
I wandered further into the room, feeling lighter than I had in days.
“This room is for you. Marzia and I will steer clear.”
“I don’t mind if you come in,” I said airily. “Art is meant to be seen.”
Giova
I looked over to him. My husband stood in the arch of the doorframe, dark and looming, impassive gaze trained on me. The sunlight that tilled through the window seemed to avoid him. A part of me wanted to copy the ray’s example and avoid him as well...but another part of me wanted closer, wanted more.
“Thank you, Giova
He blinked and seemed to stand taller. “There’s no need to be so thankful, Isabella. This room wasn’t being used for anything else.”
“Am I allowed to paint you now that we’re married, or will that end in a bonfire?”
“One day, perhaps, but not this day.”
The image of him and his brother entered my mind. Two heads of black hair, four ocean blue eyes.
Giova
His eyes narrowed. “What would make you say that?”
I hesitated. If Marzia hadn’t said anything, then it wasn’t my place. “No reason.” I scowled. “Thank you for the warning, by the way.”
“Warning?”
“About the PTA.”
Giova
I laughed again, the noise resounding around the room. “You might change your mind when I poison half of Marzia’s class.”
He inclined his head and left. As I watched his back, I realized suddenly: that was the first conversation we’d ever had where I hadn’t hated him.
It didn’t last long.