What if I needed it? Needed it for my art? What if I was only able to create because of my struggle?

I couldn’t give up my art.

Couldn’t.

So only one thing to do.

Bury the key.

37

Charlie

I inhaled deeply, adjusting my dark red skirt. I’d splurged on several new suits when Lacey had offered me the new position, but I’d been a little wary of wearing the red.

Today, though, I wanted to knock Roy’s socks off so he’d talk to me. It was early, and he might still be in bed, but I rang for him anyway.

“Yeah?” came his voice from the intercom.

I cleared my throat. “It’s me. I mean…it’s Charlie.”

Nothing for a moment. Then, “Come on up.” The door buzzed open.

I kept myself from hyperventilating in the elevator.

The elevator.

Although not this building, the elevator was where Roy had freaked out last night. What was it about an elevator?

I’d come here for one reason—to help Roy find the key. Whatever the key was. The key, I was sure, was some kind of metaphor. We weren’t looking for a real key, of course. But what was the key a metaphor for?

Roy was ready to open up. He’d asked me for the names of the therapists who could do guided hypnosis.

I sighed. It wasn’t my place to try to get information out of him, but here I was anyway, clad in daring red—

The elevator door opened. I walked slowly toward Roy’s door.

As I lifted my hand to knock, Roy opened the door.

I sucked in a breath. He was wearing nothing but a pair of white lounging pants. His abs smacked me upside the head. He was so magnificent. His hair was a mass of disarray hanging around his shoulders. Smears of paint—blues, mostly—striped his chest, arms, and hands.

“I-I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I woke you up.”

He shook his head. “I didn’t sleep.”

“You were painting.”

He nodded.

Odd, that he hadn’t pulled his hair from his eyes.

“What are you working on?”

“Something new.”

“May I—”

“No. It’s not ready yet.”

“Have you—”

“No,” he said again. “I haven’t looked at your watercolor.”

“But you had to move it, to get ready to paint, right?”

“I’m capable of moving a painting that’s covered off the easel without looking at it, Charlie.”

Charlie again. Not silver.

Roy was…not Roy.

Or maybe he was Roy. Maybe I really didn’t know Roy at all, despite the closeness we’d shared. After all, only days had passed…

“I didn’t mean to suggest—”

“I told you I wouldn’t look at it, and I never break my word.”

His dark eyes seared into me. “I know. I mean, I didn’t—”

His lips came down on mine.

Hard.

Raw.

Almost intimidating.