It was going to be a long-ass morning.
At three thirty, Max arrived at the cottage. It was a gorgeous day. The sky was clear and the smell of the upcoming summer wafted on the hazy breeze. Grace stood by the stream, her camera to her face as it always was, while she took pictures of the water. She was dressed in a denim skirt, which landed midthigh, a white vest, which made her skin appear lusciously darker, and flip-flops. She’d fastened the top of her hair so the rest fell down her back in jet-black waves and curls. She looked understatedly sexy.
Max made sure he made enough noise to alert her to his presence. She looked up and smiled wide and undisputedly happy. Tate’s words echoed in Max’s head. Was she hot for him? There was most definitely a mutual attraction. She wouldn’t have asked him to sleep with her if there wasn’t, right? He pulled his shades off and gave himself a mental slap. He needed to chill the fuck out. Enough with the overthinking.
“You’re here,” she said.
He opened his arms wide. “Said I would be.”
She made an eek face. “You might not be when I tell you why you’re here.”
Max frowned. “Hit me.”
She fisted her hands together, her fingers turning to knots. “So last week when I saw my brother, he told me that I’ve been commissioned for an art and photography exhibition at the end of August.”
Max grinned. “That’s amazing.”
Grace flushed. “Yeah, it is. It’s the first since . . . well, everything, and I’m nervous as hell. My brother’s pulled various strings with some friends, but it’s great. It’s a lot of space to fill, but I won’t let that worry me.”
“So what do you need me for?”
She took a deep breath. “I was wondering if you’d let me take some pictures of you.” Max opened his mouth to protest with a huge, fat “fuck no” but Grace beat him to it. “They’re not portraits or anything,” she assured him. “In fact, people won’t even know it’s you. It’ll be parts of you.”
Max’s hands found his hips. “Parts of me.”
“Mmhm. Like your arms.” She lifted her hand but kept it from touching him. “Your chest.” The nervous demeanor he’d seen in the coffee shop returned, her expression wary, guarded.
She’d never been that way with Max and he wasn’t about to let her start. Without thought, he took a step forward. Grace’s hand splayed against his chest, directly above his heart. Her palm burned hot through his tee. A small gasp escaped her at the same time her large eyes snapped to his, all emerald shine and beautiful.
“You can touch me,” Max told her gently. “Don’t be afraid. Not of me.”
She swallowed but didn’t move away. Instead, she opened her fingers wider and pressed her palm more firmly against him. An expression of determination hardened her features.
“All right,” she whispered. “I’d also want pictures of your face.” She lifted her hand gradually, took his chin between her thumb and forefinger, and turned his head to the side. “This part.” She traced an invisible line from the corner of his eye to the edge of his mouth with the tip of her finger. “No one would know it’s you.”
Max’s breathing was heavier; his pulse thundered. The feel of Grace’s fingers on his jaw, the sensation of her skin against his was unbelievable. It’d been too damned long since he’d experienced a woman’s touch. He was hard and breathless and they were both still fully clothed.
Fuck.
“Okay,” he croaked.
“Okay?” she asked, dropping her hand. “You’ll do it?”
Right then, he’d have done anything she damn well wanted if she’d simply touch him again. “Sure.”
For the next hour, Grace took photographs of Max’s face, his eyes, his mouth, and his jaw, set against the backdrop of the old cottage, the trees, and the water. She showed him what she’d taken after each one, reassuring him that he was unidentifiable. Max had to admit, though with little surprise, that she was very talented. Her eye for shape and light was extraordinary.
“I need you over there,” she ordered, pointing to the overturned tree he sat on when they had a break on their morning run. He threw one leg over the side, straddling it. Grace sat down next to him.
“I want to take photographs of your hands.” Her voice quieted when she touched the back of his wrist. “But, I . . . I want to show color variation.” She put her hand on his. “Like this.”
Max licked his lips as he looked at their hands together, her skin an exquisite dark, warm caramel against his white and slightly tanned. She lifted her camera with her free hand and clicked twice. She adjusted herself, moving closer, the scent of her perfume, all sweet and floral, accosting Max. She tilted and clicked, moved her hand, moved his, but still she seemed unsatisfied. Max, however, was anything but.