“Of course,” he said and saw the fight within her shimmering sea-blue eyes—just like the waves, turning darker for a moment before she sighed.
“Should I change? I just got comfortable. Thought I’d be able to relax my first night here.”
He took a step back, scratching his chin as he circled her. She’d changed out of the conservative black skirt and blouse into something that fit her perfectly and brought up a dozen questions he had about her. Her jeans were rough around the edges, torn here and there and covered with paint. So many colors he couldn’t even count them all. Her top was also dabbed with paint splotches, turning her black tank top into a piece of art itself.
Before, the blouse had hidden most of her curves, but he was able to see just what type of woman she was. The painted denim hugged her hips and thighs, and the tank showed him the outline of her chest… not large, but a decent size nonetheless. Her skin was tanned, too. Not naturally like his, but from days spent outside in the Midwestern sun.
“So is that a yes change or no change?” she asked, clearing her throat as he came back around the front and looked her up and down again.
“I think you can have one night to settle in. The king will understand,” he said finally. “Shall I help you unpack? Why didn’t you have your servants do it for you?’
“I sent them away,” she told him and padded barefoot to her suitcase on the bed.
“And why would you do that? They’re always so helpful.”
She laughed. “A bit too helpful. I don’t need strange people touching my underwear.”
He shrugged and went to the bed, plopping down on it as she started to pull more clothes out. Their eyes met, and she shook her head at him. “What? Don’t you like having a prince in your bed?”
“On my bed,” she corrected as her eyes darted over his body and back to the suitcase. “Whatever. I’m a guest in your home, so you can do what you want.” He watched her pull out a few more pairs of jeans and tanks along with a canvas bag she tried to tuck out of the way, but he asked what it was. “Nothing really. Just something I have to do for my classes.”
“Ah, school. And what are you studying?” She looked hesitant and muttered under her breath. “Rule number one. A prince or princess does not mutter or mumble,” he informed her, trying to sound as snobbish as possible. “Come on, it can’t be that bad. Tell me. How else am I supposed to get to know my future stepsister?”
He could tell she still wasn’t sure and was about to give up when she handed him a sketchbook that she had pulled from the bottom of her suitcase. He took it and sat up, flipping through the pages. He had to stop and really look at each sketch.
“What? Not to your liking?”
Quincy shook his head. “These are incredible,” he whispered, stunned by her artistry. “You did all of these?”
She nodded and sat beside him. Quincy stared at each sketch for at least a minute, taking in every little detail from the landscapes to the drawings of houses and a bustling street. There were several of people, one he recognized as Melinda, her mother. The images of flowers, the way she could shadow so well, made Quincy feel as if he could never see anything to compare them to. But as he flipped through, the images became a bit darker, a bit sadder, until he came to the last page and she tried to quickly pull it away.
“Don’t look at that one.”
“Why not?” he asked and stood so he was out of her reach.
“Just don’t.” She tried to grab it, but he moved too fast and stared down at the last image.
It was a self-portrait, but the woman standing before him and the woman in the image were two very different people. He was so stunned by the sadness in her eyes that he forgot to hold onto the sketchbook. She snatched it out of his hands and put it back in her suitcase, underneath everything else still in there.
“What happened?” he asked her quietly.
She tucked her hair behind her ears and shrugged. “Nothing really. Just went through a bit of a dark period in my life. Doesn’t everyone?”
“I guess so. I’m just glad you’re a happier person now.” As he said it he wanted to take back the words. They sounded lame. “Do you just sketch or do you paint too?” he said to change the subject.
“I do. Guess you could figure that part out pretty easily.”
“Nope, not at all.”
She laughed as she glanced down at her clothes. “New place. Needed something to remind me of home I guess. I wasn’t planning on leaving my room in this, don’t worry.”
He held up his hands. “Do you see me complaining? You’re talking to the man with more tattoos than his father knows about.”