The scent of acrylic paint mixed with turpentine filled the small apartment, the air heavy with an unspoken weight. Collins sat in front of his easel, brush in hand, but his mind wasn’t in the strokes he painted.
The canvas before him was supposed to be a commissioned piece, an abstract blend of deep reds and golds, but somewhere between the first stroke and the next, it had turned into something else entirely.
It had turned into her.
Cynthia.
His fingers tightened around the brush as he dragged the bristles across the canvas, smearing the colors in frustrated strokes.
Why the hell was he thinking about her now?
It had been months. Months since she had walked away. Months since she had decided he wasn’t enough.
Collins scoffed under his breath, shaking his head.
No.
That wasn’
