Miss Artist Can Suffer

Some colorful sparks

From here on, story will be in third person's view. As, you know... Sharon's not here anymore...

Keira started to sob. Gerald sighed and very generously offered her his handkerchief. She blew loudly into it and said, "I miss them already."

"Well, miss them in private. Don't make a show here. Come on. And keep that hanky to yourself."

Keira narrowed her eyes but followed him.

They were on their way home. Keira thought that he will lecture her on the house rules. But instead he only asked, "How do you know Walker?"

"Peter? Who doesn't know Peter? He's the hottest guy around."

He clenched his hand on the driving wheel. Not in the jealous way, but more like in annoyed way. Keira chuckled and said, "But he was like a brother to me. If you are forgetting, I was born and brought up here. Peter, Keira and I attended same school."

"I was sent to a boarding school." He replied tersely.

"Been a naughty boy, have you?"

"At least I'm not a failure." He shot back and regretted instantly.

Keira, who had been facing him, sat straight in her seat and stared ahead. She didn't say anything for the rest of the ride. Gerald mumbled 'I'm sorry' but he didn't say anything else too.

When they reached house, she got out of car quickly but had to wait at door because of his state of art security system. Her loud, impatient tapping of foot was getting on Gerald's nerves while unlocking the door but he mentally pushed himself to ignore it. When they entered house, Gerald tried, "Are you preparing any food or should I make for you too?"

But of course that didn't come out helpful as he had expected.

"Not hungry." Keira replied and stormed towards her room. Gerald too was annoyed at her headstrong attitude and left to his part of house in huff.

Gerald knew that Keira wakes up quite early by now. A trait he found to be unusual in an artist like her. So he woke up earlier than usual, to avoid her and make breakfast for her too. He thought that a breakfast should be enough as 'a sorry'.

He freshened up and came into hall, wearing only sweatpants, drying his hair by towel. He had heard that hair dryer makes your hair rough. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Keira. Keira was wearing tank top and shorts with a big, colour stained apron which reached her knees. She was setting up an easel. He quickly draped the towel on his shoulders and asked, "What are you doing?"

Keira looked back and saw wet haired, bare chested Gerald standing with towel on his shoulders. Hot water had given a pink tint to his pale cheeks. His sweatpants too hung low on his waist. Holy moly! Not that his body was made of 6 packs or something. He was an accountant and it was clearly shown by his pale skin tone that he wasn't fond of outdoors or exercises. But he was quite fit. Not one ounce of extra fat. Not that she ever fancied abs and packs. It made her feel low about her own smallish muffin top on her waist. She quickly turned her gaze at her easel and said, "Setting up the easel. I intend to paint your house."

"And who gave you the permission?"

"Gerald," His name sounded weird on her tongue, "Your house is going to be a part of art history. I am making it immortal in the form of painting. Don't you want that? Plus, if you are making breakfast, can you make me some too?"

Gerald forgot his idea to cook breakfast for her and said haughtily, "You can make your own breakfast."

"So I can paint your house?" Keira smirked.