Page 58 of Not Safe for Work

“Ra-a-fe,” I say, affecting my most authoritative voice, drawing out his name.

He snorts. “You can’t boss me around.”

He attempts a stern look, but I catch the corner of his mouth twitching up.

“Look over there!” I shout, pointing off in the distance, and he tips his head towards me and scoffs.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. That was so sad.”

I flatten my lips. It really was.

I begin to stand, and he stuffs the book behind him. So, I pretend that my right knee buckles, crying out as I catch myself on the edge of his lounger. It’s only a partial feint because, holy shit, are my legs sore.

“Are you okay?” Rafe leans forward and grabs my wrist.

I am dirtier than a cafeteria food fight, but I wince, committing to the bit. I reach around him and snatch the sketchbook.

“Aha!” I hold it over my head and jump, grimacing because that actually hurts.

I retreat as Rafe stands and backs me against the railing.

“Don’t move,” I say, clutching the book against my chest and holding my hand out towards him. “Take another step, and I’ll throw it over the railing.”

I’m the worst right now, but curiosity is eating me alive.

He stops, balling his hands into fists.

“Tris,” he says, a warning in his voice that gives me a sick little thrill. “Give me that.”

“I will,” I say. “I just want to have a look.”

I hesitate, searching his face, trying to determine how upset he is. If he really wants me to stop, I will. But he doesn’t move; he just watches me before his chin dips in the barest nod of acquiescence.

I flip open the book and inhale a surprised gasp.

It’s the view from our balcony sketched out in various shades of grey, and it’s absolutely breathtaking.

The light and the details are perfect—an unblemished mirror of the horizon.

I look up and sense him bracing himself for a blow, but I have no intention of hurting him. I hate that it’s what he expects.

“This is incredible,” I say, flipping to the next page, revealing more scenes of the beach. Stills of flowers and glasses on tables, water beading on their surfaces. There are sketches of places I recognize from back home, each more gorgeous and lifelike than the last. There are hands and eyes and pieces of people. Lips and hair and noses. There are even several pages of desserts—towering cakes and stunning constructions pieced together with macarons and whipped cream. I wonder what inspired them.

“These are amazing. You’re incredibly talented.”

I look up again at him, and his shoulders drop with a relieved exhale. “You think so?”

I furrow my brows. “Of course. Surely you know how good these are?”

He shrugs. “It’s just a silly hobby. Something I do when I’ve got shit on my mind.”

I stop on an image of a tree in a park, the leaves so lifelike it feels like I could pick them off from the page. “Well, if this is just a hobby, you’re amazing at it.”

I keep flipping, and my breath catches again as I open a portrait of Hannah. I blink.

“That’s old,” he says in a way that sounds like he’s explaining himself. “I did that a long time ago.” I shake my head. Who am I to question drawings of his ex-girlfriend?

I keep flipping and then I nearly drop the book.