Thief of Hearts
Page 59

“Our aunt, Sophie’s Mum, let on that she was taking care of us.”
“And was she?”
“Nah, but she had no problem spending the social welfare money she got for it.”
“That’s awful,” I exclaimed.
“That’s life, Andrea. And we survived well enough. We might’ve had to break the law to do it, but we survived.”
I hugged him close, my heart hurting for him and his brothers, for the little boys they once were. Now I understood how he’d ended up in prison, how he’d gone down the wrong path in life. It was survival, pure and simple. I wished I could somehow go back in time and pluck him from that situation, care for him and his brothers like they should’ve been cared for.
“My upbringing was the complete opposite,” I said, my voice quiet. “I never had a care, never wanted for anything. Thinking about how life was for you, I feel like I took it all for granted.”
“You were a kid. All kids just accept their reality, whether it’s good or bad.”
“Maybe. It just really hurts me to think about you having to steal when you should’ve been out playing football with your friends or I dunno, going to the cinema and stuff.”
Stu gave a tender chuckle. “We still did that, too. It wasn’t all bad you know. It just was.”
A quiet fell between us and Stu’s fingers wandered to my inner arm to trace my tattoo. “When did you get this?”
I startled slightly, because I often forgot it was even there. “Just a few weeks after Mark passed. Alfie was actually the one who suggested it. I was staying at my parents’ house, barely getting out of bed, not eating. I think he thought it would be good for me to do something to commemorate him, something permanent that would symbolise how he still lived on in my heart. So he drew the design for me on a piece of paper. It was beautiful, so simple and lovely. And he was right. Every second the ink was going into my skin made me feel better, less lost.”
Stu didn’t speak, just continued tracing the tattoo, and somehow I felt like he understood. He accepted my past, and though he’d questioned me about my ring earlier in the day, I felt like now, in this moment, he didn’t feel threatened by it. If I hadn’t experienced everything I had, if I hadn’t been married to Mark, I wouldn’t be who I am today.
We stayed like that for a long while, just lying in one another’s arms and savouring the feeling of connection. Finally, Stu shifted us into a sitting position, his voice tender when he spoke. “Go get some clothes on, and I’ll give you a lift home.”
“Stu.”
“What is it, gorgeous?”
“Thanks for listening to me, and for telling me about your childhood.” I paused, a smile tugging at my lips. “You’re kind of a great guy.”
He shot me a cocky grin. “You’re only realising this now?”
I threw a pillow at his head.
Twenty

Someone knocked loudly on my bedroom door, irritatingly waking me up from a lovely, lovely dream. Stu had dragged me into the storage cupboard at the college again, only this time he used his hands to bring me to orgasm. I sat up in bed, grumpily flicking on my lap and checking the time on my alarm clock. 3:47 a.m. I was going to murder my cousin.
“What do you want, Alfie?” I called. “I can’t even think about how early it is right now.”
There was a pause and the sound of him hopping nervously from foot to foot. “Well, technically you could say it’s late rather than early . . .” he said sheepishly as I climbed out of bed and threw open the door. I was so tired I could only manage to open one eye.
“Just spit it out,” I said crankily.
Alfie was practically buzzing with energy as he blurted. “I finished it. It’s done.”
“Finished?”
“The painting. Stu’s painting. It’s finished, and Andie, oh my God, it’s . . . I feel like it might be brilliant, hell, I feel like it might be amazing but I’ve been staring at it so long I can’t tell anymore, and I need you to look so you can tell me I’m right.”
I held up a hand to cut off his never-ending words and then rubbed at my eyes. “Okay, I’m awake. Let’s go take a look at this knock-off.”
“It’s a replica, Andie, not a knock-off,” Alfie grumped.
I grinned sleepily and he folded his arms on a huff. “Fine, I guess I deserved that for waking you up. You’d swear I’d just interrupted you from a dream about a Charlie Hunnam striptease.”
Now I grinned, because my dream had been so much better than that. Two weeks had passed since I had dinner with Stu and his family. Two weeks of stolen kisses and hurried sexual encounters where we were both so eager to fall into one another we barely had time to catch our breath. My skin constantly tingled with the anticipation of when we might get to be together next, the danger that we might get caught. Most evenings he’d wait at the end of my street in his car and then we’d go take a drive somewhere. And by drive I meant . . .
My thoughts were cut short when I stepped inside Alfie’s bedroom to find a masterpiece on his easel. I stood frozen in place, aghast at the accuracy of his work. It didn’t just look like the original, it looked old, like I was staring at a piece that had existed for hundreds of years. Alfie hovered close by, anxiously awaiting my feedback.
“Well?” he said, biting his lip. “Do you think it’ll pass for the real thing?”
I didn’t answer him and instead walked farther into the room, glancing between the fake and Alfie’s laptop screen, where the photograph of the original was displayed. I was still amazed by how you could zoom in and out and inspect every single detail, see every tiny crack in the oil paint. I kept looking from one to the other, trying to pick out differences but coming up short.
It was flawless.
Whatever methods Alfie had used to recreate the aging of the paint truly astounded me.
“I can’t believe it. Alfie, it’s identical,” I said finally, and he let out the loudest sigh of relief I’d ever heard. Sometimes I wondered how just one person could hold so much unspent nervous tension inside their body. It almost felt like he was vibrating with it.
My cousin sagged down onto the bed, his clothes and much of his hands smeared with paint. He threw his arm over his face as he muttered. “Thank God.”