“It’s not art,” she said first, and then, “You ask too many questions.”
On the contrary, he was starting to see that he hadn’t asked nearly enough. Not just of his father and Rosa—but of himself too. That didn’t mean she needed him to hammer on her right this second, though, so he simply said, “Did you bring your needle and thread? You could use one of my canvases while you sit for me.”
“They’re in my bag, although I’m not sure I want to make anything in front of a real artist.”
He looked down at the hem of her shirt, then back up into her eyes. “You told me not to be modest yesterday, so I’ll say the same to you now. I’d like to paint you while you work, if you’ll let me.”
She bit her lip as she thought about it. Finally, she said, “Okay. But the rules are still the same—you can’t show it to anyone.”
“I won’t.”
He needed to tell her about his sister seeing the paintings, but he didn’t want to risk her changing her mind about coming back to his cabin. Working to justify his decision by telling himself he’d divulge it to her soon, he gently stroked her chin with his paint-covered fingertips one more time, then finally started the engine.
*
“Did you paint all night long?” Rosa stood in his doorway with her mouth hanging open. Oscar had given a bark of joy when he spotted her and was now leaning heavily against her thigh while she stroked his head.
Drake hadn’t thought about how this would look, hadn’t been thinking about anything other than praying that she hadn’t yet left town and getting to the motel before she could. There was no point in pretending he wasn’t consumed by painting her. Not when the proof was right in front of her.
“I’ve been painting since you left yesterday.” And now that she was here again in the flesh, he was itching to get at his brushes and canvases again. “Wherever you want to sit, or stand, or lie down—it’s all good for me.”
He was reaching for a brush when he noticed her looking at him with concern in her eyes. “Wait, are you saying you haven’t slept since yesterday?”
“I didn’t need to.”
She frowned. “Have you eaten?”
“I’m good.” The only two things he was hungry for were Rosa—and the chance to paint her.
“No, you’re not.” She headed into the kitchen with Oscar close on her heels. “I’m not a great cook like you are, but I can make sure you don’t starve, at least.” She opened the fridge and pulled out cold cuts, cheese, pickles, and mustard. She found a loaf of bread on the counter and grabbed a plate from the open shelf above the sink.
Even watching her make a sandwich fueled Drake. Both as an artist, as he worked to capture her making a sandwich in his kitchen—and as a man, when she popped a piece of turkey into her mouth, then licked off her fingers.
Lord, did he ever want to slide his tongue along her skin.
“Come eat,” she said a few minutes later, pushing the plate and a soda toward him on the small, tiled kitchen counter.
But he didn’t want to waste one single second of this chance to paint her live and in the flesh. “Thanks, I’ll grab it in a bit.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m going to have to force-feed you, aren’t I?”
He didn’t bother answering, not when he was utterly focused on capturing her expression—the slight tilt of her mouth as she scolded him, along with the light flush in her cheeks that had remained in the wake of their kiss.
“Open up.”
Drake was taken unawares by the sandwich pressed to his mouth. But though he did as she asked—ordered, actually—he was barely aware of what he was tasting. All he could focus on was how close she was standing between him and his canvas, and how good it was to have her nearly flush against his body.
“I’m going to stand right here until you finish this.”
He took another bite, then washed it down with the soda in her other hand. “It’s good,” he said as he finally registered the taste. “Really good.”
Her smile came fast and beautiful, one dimple flashing. “Thanks.” He wished she’d take his compliments about her artistic skills as easily as she took one about a sandwich.
After he took another bite, she took one out of the other side. “Mmm,” she said around her mouthful, “it is good.”
Funny how much more intimate it felt to share a sandwich with her in his cabin than any five-star dinner with white tablecloths and dim lights ever had. Intimate enough that he couldn’t wait any longer to tell her, “My sister dropped by unexpectedly this morning. She saw the paintings, but she’s promised not to tell anyone.”
About to feed him another bite, Rosa lowered the sandwich. “She will.”
“Suz is a master secret keeper. It’s what she does for a living—she makes sure that companies can keep their computer systems totally secure.”