"You can't make me go," I growled at the big stubborn giant staring down at me with a glare that was being betrayed by the amusement in his blue eyes.
"Try me," he replied, crossing his arms across his chest, the cookies he'd insisted we bake long forgotten as he focused his energy entirely on me.
"Brayden, I'm not going to say this again," I started, leveling a glare on him, my hands planted firmly on my hips. "I'm not going to the stupid thing, and you, know matter what you do, can't make me."
He sighed, tiredly, and I held back my satisfied smile, knowing damn well that the prick trying to force me to go to the farce of a gallery, wasn't that easily defeated. He definitely had something up his sleeve.
"Fine," he mumbled, absently, his eyes traveling to the counter to my left, and as I followed his eyes, I realized what the hell he had planned a little too late when a handful of flour was suddenly shoved down the front of my shirt.
Gasping, I pulled the shirt away from my body, and stared down the inside at my now covered in flour, black bra. "What the fuck, dude?"
Looking up, I found him staring back at me, a bored look on his face, like he hadn't just doused me in flour. "You left me no choice."
My jaw went slack as I looked up at the big dummy trying to fight a grin that fell into a glare, when I reached for the partially-done cookie dough, and smeared some of it on his chest, his hand coming up to stop me too late.
"Is that how you wanna play this?" He glared back, grabbing a handful of flour and flinging it right in my face, a sputter leaving my lips as I quickly blinked to avoid any of it getting in my eyes.
Wiping the flour off my eyes, slowly, I peeled them open to give him my best death glare. "That is it."
I was flinging myself on him as soon as the words were out of my mouth, catching him off guard, and making him stumble back, losing his footing, and falling flat on the ground, with me falling with him.
Wasting no time, I used his shock against him, and straddled him, grabbing a handful of flour off the counter and shoving it into his slightly opened mouth. "Say you'll drop this, and I'll stop force feeding you flour."
Coughing and sending flour flying out of his mouth, he tried to bat my hands away, twisting and turning beneath me, trying to get away.
"Say it," I demanded, slapping his hand away when he went to grab onto one of my arms.
"No," he choked out, trying once again to grab the hand that was currently curled into a tight fist that held flour that still managed to find it's way out.
"Fine, then eat flour, bitch," I growled, shrugging.
"Enough," he growled back, giving me a hard glare that sent shivers down my spine. The kind of shivers that made me want to forget this whole thing, and lean down and crash my lips to his.
God, he was just so fucking hot.
And I, apparently, was a masochist.
Grabbing my hands, he lifted his knee, and flipped me off of him. Gently rolling me onto the kitchen floor, he climbed over me, and positioned himself in much like the position I'd used to hold him down a minute ago.
Loosening his hold on my wrists, he brought my arms down, gently resting my hands on his bent legs, and brushed the back of them with his thumbs, before his eyes met mine.
"Why don't you want to go? You're finally getting the recognition that you deserve," he whispered, his eyes imploring.
Avoiding his blue eyes, I stared at his chest, nibbling on my bottom lip. "I just don't, okay?"
"But why, Pinocchio? I don't understand," he sighed, moving off of me, he sat on the floor, and using his hold on my hands, he pulled me into a sitting position in front of him. "Talk to me."
Meeting his blue eyes filled with unease and worry, I tried to give him a smile. Tried to soothe his worries away, but how could I do that when I felt like absolute crap?
"Do you really want to know?"
He nodded immediately, toying with my fingers, before lifting one of my hands and pressing his lips to the back of it.
"Because no one is going to be there, okay? No one wants to see paintings done by a Mathews," I shrugged, trying desperately to hide how miserable that actually made me feel.
"That's what you're worried about?" He asked, relief flooding his features, a slow smile taking over his face. "Porter, I'll be there. I want to see every single one of your paintings on display. I am so goddamn proud of you."
I couldn't help but return his bright smile, shaking my head. "Its not just that, Brayden...what if people do show up? What if they show up to make sure I have a miserable time? What if they show up to vandalize my paintings?"
"What are you talking about?"
I shook my head with a bitter smile, a pang in my chest. "This town doesn't like my family to know any type of happiness. Whenever my mom or I have any sort of good luck, they always make sure the other shoe drops. I can't remember a time in my life when something good happened, and it wasn't tainted by them."
"What about me? Us?" He whispered, nervously, his eyes flitting away from mine for a moment before finding their way back.
I smiled, sadly. "Not yet...but...we will be."
He shook his head, rapidly. "Not if we don't let them."
"That's not how it works," I replied, my eyes falling to our intertwined fingers.
"It's exactly how it works," he replied, fervently, and letting go of one of my hands, he cupped my cheek, placed his thumb under my chin, and tilted my head back; forcing my eyes to meet his. "There is nothing that anyone can say or do, to change how I feel about you."
Pulling my bottom lip into my mouth, I looked away, no longer able to look him in the eyes when I knew the truth. "They think you're with me out of pity. Doing the right thing by trying to help her irreparable reputation they said. That's the only explanation. The only reason a Cavanaugh would bring someone like her to one of his games. It's already starting, Brayden, don't you see?"
He nodded once, "So that's why you looked sad Friday night."
"They knew I could hear them...they made sure that I could," I replied, bitterly, remembering the way the group had laughed, and snickered behind me. I'd wanted so badly to leave, go home and hide for the rest of my life, but I'd stayed. I'd stayed for him. I'd promised I would be there, and I would be damned if I let them make me break a promise to him.
They hadn't lasted very long behind me after Macy had turned around with a glare that could kill you in the spot and told them that if they uttered my name ever again, she'd make sure to beat the living shit out of them.
That's when the humiliation had really set in, my cheeks burning as I fought the urge to retreat into myself. I'd wanted to scream, hating that his sister had had to stand up for me once again. I hated that even more than their words. I didn't want him or his family to feel pity for me, didn't want them to see me the way the rest of the town did; the outcast who couldn't even stand up for herself.
But then I'd found Brayden's number between the many players, and brushed those feelings aside, plastering a fake smile on my face; reminding myself that I was there for him. I was there because he'd asked me to come. Peppered my face with kisses after I'd agreed, and beamed down at me the next morning when he'd mumbled that he'd see me at his game.
I'd spent the entire day panicking, his calming presence, that always without fail immediately seemed to calm me, hadn't been there. He'd spent the entire day busy with his classes, coach and team. And like the pitiful sap that I'd become, I'd missed the hell out of him.
I had no idea when I'd become so dependent of having him around, so accustomed to it. But...I had.
"Porter," his soft voice filtered through mt thoughts, and my heart fluttered in my chest. That was my voice, yes, it was presumptuous to even think that, but I'd quickly come to realize I was the only one he ever spoke to in that voice.
It did things to my heart. It was soft, and peaceful, almost sounding like a plea and prayer in one. It always made me feel so goddamn special when he spoke to me in that voice, and looking up at him now, the stupid trademark blush that came with that voice found itself on my face.
"Do you think that? Do you think I'm with you for the wrong reasons?" He asked, softly, his thumbs brushing lightly over the tops of my hands.
Pulling my bottom lip between my teeth, I let out small sigh. Trying to hide the truth from him, I stared at his chest instead of meeting his eyes when I finally answered, "No, of course not, it's just..."
"Just?" He proded when I trailed off, words seeming to escape me.
I had no idea how to explain to him that yes, I worried every day that he was with me for the wrong reasons. Not the reasons that they thought, but reasons. Reasons like he was going through a mental breakdown. Going crazy. Wasn't realizing what the hell he was getting himself into. Sure, he had no clue now, but he would.
He would realize just what the hell he was getting himself into soon enough, and he would do the smart thing and leave me.
"Pinocchio?"
I sighed, heavily, and finally met his blue eyes. "We don't make sense. Sure, when it was fake it was fine, because they didn't know that. They had no idea that it was fake, but we did. We knew it was fake so it...it didn't have to make sense. But, we don't make any sense."
He smiled, softly, lifting a hand to my face, he brushed his thumb on my cheek. "Porter, it doesn't have to make sense. Feelings never make sense, they're messy, and complicated and so goddamn confusing, but we figure it out together. We work through it together."
I smiled, shyly, my eyes flickering to his chest for a minute, before meeting his again. "Together" I repeated, slowly, testing the word.
I liked it. I liked it a lot. Somehow with him by my side, I felt like I could do anything. Say anything. Be anything.
He nodded, a smile playing on his lips, his thumbs brushing the back of my hands. "So...will you go then? For me?"
I sighed, tiredly, squeezing his fingers lightly. "Brayden," sigh, "I just...it's not a good idea. If you really want to see my paintings, I'll show them to you myself, okay? How's that? Give you a private tour? That sounds better, right?"
He gave me a small smile, nodding, understandably. "And you're sure you don't want to go?"
I nodded, quickly, "Yes."
"Okay, fine, but I'm going to take you up on that private tour," he replied, jumping up onto his feet, and reaching down he pulled me up by my arms, making me squeak in surprise. "Let's go."
"Wait, right now?"
He grabbed my arm, pulling me gently along, "Yes, right now."
"But, but, but," I squeaked out, digging my heels into the floor, trying desperately to slow him down.
Turning around, he rolled his eyes, playfully, and ducking down, wrapped his arms around my knees; hoisting me over his shoulders, cutting off the rest of my protests. He made his way out of the kitchen and through the living room, towards the garage.
As we got closer, I began to panic. My heart beating wildly in my chest as the realization of what was about to happen, what I'd stupidly made happen, hit me.
Brayden was about to see all of my paintings.
All of my paintings of him.
Oh sweet baby Jesus.
"Okay, but before you see them, you should know that-" I knew the minute he saw them, his entire body going still beneath me.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck a big duck.
He slowly lowered me to the ground, never even turning to glance my way as he set me down next to him, his entire attention on the many paintings littered around the garage.
Oh god.
He was going to leave me, wasn't he?
God, he was never going to talk to me ever again. I was a goddamn stalker, why would he ever want anything to do with a stalker?
"Wow." I heard him whisper under his breath, moving to one of the paintings in the middle of the room. It was a painting of him at his game.
I'd captured that image in my head right after they'd won their game on Friday. He'd pulled his helmet off, his skates gliding along the ice to the middle of the rink, where he'd let his head fall back, a sigh leaving his lips, his eyes closed.
He'd looked so beautiful. The high of the win, the adrenaline of the game, outweighing the exhaustion I knew would soon settle in his bones.
I loved watching him play. Loved how his face lit up when he was on that ice, his body vibrating with excited energy. But most of all I loved the way he celebrated his wins; by breathing it all in, the smile on his face contagious.
So I'd painted that image on a canvas to keep it forever with me. Wanting desperately to capture the happiness he'd felt that night, and keep him that way forever. He deserved all the happiness in the world.
"Porter, these are..."
Weird.
Creepy.
"Amazing," he breathed, making my head snap in his direction.
"What?" I choked out, fidgeting nervously, and fighting the urge to go to him and place a palm on his forehead to make sure he wasn't running a fever.
"God, you are so goddamn talented," he finally turned to me, absolute pride in his eyes, making my heart flutter in my chest.
Taking two long strides, he was in front of me, cupping my face in his hands, and crowding my space. "You are incredible."
Letting out a nervous laugh, I shook my head, closing my fingers around his wrists. "You don't think they're creepy?"
He grinned. "Why would I think it's creepy that you drew inspiration from me? Baby, I'm more than happy to be your inspiration."
I swallowed past the lump in my throat, blinking back my tears. Giving him a playful grin, I wiggled my eyebrows. "You are very inspiring."
"You're damn straight I am," he sniffed, smugly, "Plus, I've always wanted to day this, 'Draw me like one of your French girls, Ms. Mathews.'"
Rolling my eyes, I snorted, and leaning up, I pressed my lips to his, and wrapped my arms around his neck, a sigh of relief leaving my lips.
"Just so you know, I'm taking half of these and hanging them all over my house," he mumbled against my lips with a smile. "The one of my game is going above my bed."
I couldn't help but laugh, wrapping my arms around him, tighter, trying to keep him as close to me as possible.
God, I really was screwed.