I was about to step out onto the porch when my cell phone rang. I dug it out of the back pocket of my jeans, then sucked in a breath when I saw the caller ID. Cole.
I hesitated a moment, but there was no way I was going to let this call roll to voicemail, even if I should. So I bit my lower lip, then pressed my thumb on the green button.
I didn’t, however, say anything. Just my little nod to passive-aggressiveness.
“Liz told me you came by the gallery.” His voice was steady. Smooth. And I couldn’t read one damn thing into it.
“I did.”
“If you were looking for an apology—”
“No!” I blurted out the word, then immediately winced. So much for cool and collected. “Dammit, Cole,” I said, and though the words were harsh, my voice was gentle. “Don’t you understand that there is nothing to apologize for?”
There was such a long pause before he spoke again that I started to fear the line had gone dead. When his words did come, they seemed to hang between us, heavy with emotion and regret.
“You tempt me, Kat.”
“I guess that makes us even.”
His low chuckle was like a balm, and I found myself smiling. “You’re a goddamn fool, blondie.”
“But I’m not,” I said. “I’m smart, Cole. And I know what I want. You know what else?” I asked, but I didn’t wait to give him time to answer. “I know what you want, too.”
“Really? And what is it I want?”
“Me,” I said, then hoped that I hadn’t just taken another giant step away from him.
He said nothing—neither agreement nor protest—and so I pressed gamely on.
“I saw your studio space. I saw me.”
“All right,” he said slowly. “And what did you think?”
“The images are stunning, but I told you that last night when you found me looking at the one in the gallery.”
“That was a poignant moment. The beautiful woman unaware she was looking at her own reflection.”
“Beautiful,” I continued, “technically perfect. Pure. But not me. Not really me at all.”
“You’re wrong,” he said.
“The hell I am. I’m not pure. I’m not innocent. Christ, Cole, you had your fingers inside me less than twenty-four hours ago, and it wasn’t me who walked away.”
“Kat—”
“No, listen to me. Please, Cole. Don’t you get it? I’m not the girl you painted. I’m not a goddamn angel. Do you have any idea how badly I wanted you last night? All of you. Your mouth, your cock.”
“Jesus, Kat.”
I heard the heat in his voice, and my pulse kicked up with the knowledge that maybe—just maybe—I was getting through to him. “And when you left me hanging, I swear to god I cursed you like a sailor. Would your innocent little model do that?”
He said nothing, and I pressed on, determined to win this battle. Hell, determined to win the war. “You wanted it, too,” I said. “Tell me. Please. I need to hear that I’m not crazy. I need to know that last night you wanted me just as much as I wanted you.”
“I’ve wanted you from the first moment I saw you.”
I closed my eyes, my body sagging from the pure relief of hearing the acknowledgment of what I’d been so sure about. I leaned against the dingy wall of this house that would be mine, sighed, and slid down to the floor in bliss.
“You can have me,” I said. “Any time. Any place. Any way you want,” I added, saying the last in a whisper.
“No,” he said. “I can’t.”
I cringed from the resolve in his voice.
“I can’t,” he repeated. “I can’t choose when, or where, and certainly not how. But when I look at you—when I paint you—”
His voice had taken on a lyrical quality, and I held the words close, wanting to soak in this moment, because who knew how many more I would get? “Tell me.”
“Put your phone on speaker,” he said. “Set it beside you.”
I pressed the button to turn on the speaker. “All right.”
“Good. You need to understand that when I paint you, it’s not just an image of you that is in front of me. It’s flesh. It’s blood.”
“It’s me.”