Free His Brand of Passion by Kate Hewitt

was nothing easy about Aaron Bryant.
    That morning she’d taken a few more things from her apartment, pangs of both worry and regret assailing her as she had looked around the space she’d made her own, now empty and forlorn. A few weeks ago she’d had a home, a life, had been in control of her own destiny. Now she felt as if she were spinning in a void of unknowing and uncertainty.
    Kind of like Robert felt now. She reached for a large piece of paper and the finger paints. ‘Maybe,’ she suggested, ‘you’d like to do something messy?’ The little boy was almost unbearablyneat. ‘Mess is okay here, you know. Everything washes off.’
    He hesitated and she opened the paint pots, waited with a smile. A second later he carefully dipped one finger in the yellow paint and drew a single, cautious line on the paper, like a ray of sunlight. Zoe murmured something encouraging.
    It was a start to unlocking the little boy’s pain, to freeing those tightly held parts of himself. And she needed to start, too. She wasn’t going to drift through the next few weeks like some desperate ghost. That had never been her style, even if men tended to bring out clinginess in her. She wouldn’t be clingy with Aaron; she’d be in control. She’d claim her life back, even if it wasn’t on the terms she really wanted.
    She spent the rest of the afternoon arranging some of her things in Aaron’s apartment, nerves battling with determination. She ordered Indian—she was methodically working through the takeaways—and set the table for two. Aaron made it home for dinner most evenings, and he almost seemed to enjoy the chatter she kept up resolutely, even if he sometimes seemed bewildered by the whole concept: dinner. Conversation. Company.
    The lift doors swooshed open and Zoe turned. ‘Hey there,’ she said brightly and watched as Aaron’s gaze moved around the apartment, taking in the plants lining the window sill and the two paintings she’d put on the walls, replacing some of the soulless modern atrocities he’d had hanging there. One canvas had been six feet of blank white with a single black splodge in the corner. Ridiculous.
    ‘I see you’ve made yourself at home,’ he said neutrally and Zoe gave him a teasing smile.
    ‘I warned you, didn’t I? At least this place has some colour.’
    He stopped in front of an oil painting of a jar of lilacs ona kitchen table. The paint had been used liberally, creating, Zoe hoped, a messy yet welcoming feel.
    ‘This is rather good, I suppose,’ he said, sounding a bit grudging, and he turned to Zoe. ‘Who’s the artist?’
    ‘Oh…no one famous.’ She felt herself blush.
    Aaron arched an eyebrow. ‘Well, I didn’t think it was Van Gogh. Is it a friend of yours?’
    ‘Umm… It’s mine, actually.’ Both of the paintings were, and she suddenly realised how arrogant it might seem to hang her own art on his walls. She hadn’t thought of that at the time; she just liked to be reminded of what she’d done, what she was capable of.
    ‘I thought you were an art therapist, not an artist,’ Aaron said, his brow furrowed, and Zoe shrugged.
    ‘One’s a profession, one’s a hobby.’
    ‘Did you ever want to be a professional artist?’
    She shrugged. ‘I don’t really have what it takes. In any case, I like helping people.’ She saw him frowning at her, as if she were a puzzle he didn’t understand.
    ‘I should work tonight,’ he said abruptly, and Zoe’s heart sank. Another night in front of the TV alone.
    ‘Don’t you get tired of working? It’s practically all you do.’
    ‘It’s necessary.’
    ‘Is it?’ She kept her voice teasing. ‘Will the company fall apart if you’re not at the helm every second of the day, fingers twitching on your phone?’
    Aaron’s mouth tightened. ‘It might,’ he answered, and Zoe realised he was serious. Good grief, talk about a God complex.
    ‘What happens when you get sick? Or go on vacation?’
    ‘I don’t.’
    She shook her