“No.”
His voice was clipped. Definitely different from the way he spoke about his siblings. Did that mean the tight unit didn’t extend to his father?
“My cousin Mia is a Realtor in Seattle. She got a tip about this place coming up on the market for the first time since it was built as a hunting cabin fifty years ago. She’s the master of knowing just what people need.”
“I could use someone like her in my life right about now.” Though Rosa said it softly, she already knew that Drake didn’t miss a thing. “How long did it take your father to recover from losing your mom?”
“He hasn’t.”
Her eyebrows went up. “But it’s been thirty years.”
“Exactly. She was his muse. His obsession. His everything. He stopped painting the day she left. And that’s why I always swore I wouldn’t ever paint women. Because I never want my art, or my life, to be tied that closely to just one person.” He looked down at the sketchbook in his hand. “You’re the first woman I’ve ever painted. The first woman I’ve ever had to paint.”
If someone else had said something like this to Rosa, she probably would have been flattered or creeped out, depending on how weird the guy was. But with Drake, she felt as though warmth infused her, way down deep inside where she’d grown used to feeling so cold.
“These are extenuating circumstances,” she supplied for him, not wanting him to feel bad about breaking his rule—and not wanting to let herself build this up into anything more than two strangers hanging out together for a couple of hours. “I’m sure painting me isn’t about anything more than getting your juices flowing. After I leave, you’ll be off and running again like you were before, and then you can throw that sketchbook into the fire.”
“I promised you I wouldn’t show these paintings to anyone. But I won’t burn them, Rosa.”
She licked her lips and tried to calm her racing heart. She should get up and leave before the sexual tension sparking like crazy between them combusted and made her life even messier—and his too. But leaving was the last thing she wanted.
What she really wanted was to walk over to Drake and beg him to put his shockingly talented hands on her already overheated skin.
The dinging of the timer on the old red enamel oven broke through her inappropriate thoughts. “The lasagna is ready,” she said. “I’ll get it out.”
But her voice was full of far more suppressed lust than an Italian dish warranted.
Chapter Eight
Drake’s cabin didn’t have a dining room table. He’d cleared out most of the furniture when he’d moved in so that he could fit more easels into the space. If the weather was good, he ate at the picnic table outside. If it was bad, he sat in the leather chair by the window and unfolded a small card table for his meals.
Since the rain had come in again, he set up the table, then went and got a couple of folding chairs out of the closet. Rosa had served up the lasagna on the chipped brown and orange plates that had come with the cabin, and he ripped off paper towels to use as napkins.
His kitchen was small enough that they kept brushing up against each other. Just little touches that wouldn’t normally have registered—an inch of her hip against his, the tip of his elbow across her stomach—but with Rosa, nothing was normal. And when they suddenly found themselves face to face between the fridge and the peninsula, neither of them moved. Hell, he wasn’t even sure either of them breathed.
All he could do was stare.
And want.
Drake wanted to run his fingertips over her flushed cheeks so that he could finally find out just how soft her skin was.
He wanted to trace his tongue over the full curve of her lower lip to finally know if she tasted as sweet as she looked.
He wanted to run his nose along the curve of her neck and into her silky hair so that he’d never be able to forget her scent.
He was so far gone, in fact, that he didn’t notice when Oscar walked into the kitchen and suddenly leaned—hard—against Rosa’s side. Clearly, she didn’t see his dog coming either, because where she’d been able to keep her balance before, this time she was so surprised by the heavy weight that her knees buckled.
Drake reached out and caught her before she could hit her head on the corner of the kitchen counter, and it was pure instinct to pull her against him so that their bodies were flush and tight and their faces barely a breath apart. Her lips parted and her hands tightened on his waist where she’d reached out as she fell.
“Rosa.” He couldn’t form any other word but her name, couldn’t think about anything but her.