She opened her mouth to argue, then she snapped it shut. “Thank you for the apology.” She paused and he could tell she was weighing her next words. To his surprise, she worried her lower lip in that nervous way that used to get to him. “What did you think?” She held the portfolio closer to her chest. “Of my designs?”
The last thing he’d call Elsie was shy, but in that moment a quiet uncertainty washed over her. Clay was right, she wasn’t as tough as she was letting on. And that got to him more than anything—even that sexy black number.
“Impressive.”
He could see her discomfort and the fact that she didn’t believe him. What had happened to that confident, fearless, and sure-as-shit woman?
“You can be honest,” she said. “You won’t hurt my feelings.”
Maybe not, but someone had. He could tell. “I stand by my statement. If you let me have a longer peek, I can give you a more detailed list of the things I appreciate.”
“Are we still talking about my sketches? Because you’re looking at my boobs.”
“There’s a lot to appreciate.” He watched as she considered this, then her face flushed and—well, would you look at that—her gaze dropped to his mouth. Again. “What do you want to talk about?”
“I think I’ve had too much to drink to answer that question.”
He took a step closer. “Then I’ll ask again tomorrow.”
She shook her head, sending strands of auburn hair falling around her face. “That wouldn’t be smart.” He was convinced she was going to turn around and swish her song-inspiring ass right out of the room when she said,” But maybe we can talk about my mock-ups. I mean, since you already peeked.”
He was transported back to that day in her kitchen when he’d almost kissed her. He cleared his throat and took a step back—physically and emotionally. “I’d like that.”
“The one on top isn’t finished.”
“And the rest?” He eyed the sketchbook she was clinging to so fiercely.
“The rest aren’t ready yet either. Plus, they’re on my side of the house.”
Well, if that didn’t make him feel like a bigger jerk. He knew how private she was, also knew what a perfectionist she was, tinkering with a single sketch until it was exactly what she wanted. “I’m really sorry, I know how private you are about your work. That would be like you looking at an unfinished song, then reshuffling the pages to screw with me.”
Her voice went quiet. “Is that what this whole thing is about? Trying to screw with me?”
“No. Never.” Again, she didn’t believe him and that left him feeling uncertain. Sure, it had been a few years since they’d had a deep conversation—a conscious choice on his end—but she knew him well enough to know he wasn’t a liar. “Why would you think that?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know, recent experience, I guess.” She went quiet for a moment, then looked down at her sketches. “Maybe I can show you one page, but only if you promise to be honest.”
“Have you ever known me to be otherwise?” he asked. Her expression said she hadn’t made up her mind—which hurt on a cellular level.
She didn’t move to release her sketch pad, in fact she held it tighter and started this cute little sway. She was a little more than tipsy, she was on the fast track to drunk. “Will you regret this in the morning?”
“Probably.” She took a step forward and set her pad on the desk, holding it closed with her hand. “I have a meeting with a new client on Wednesday. It’s for a recording studio and I’ve been trying to find ways to make it feel more like a music hall, you know, aesthetically pleasing. Everyone in that room is a creative and I can’t imagine how hard it would be as an artist to spend that much time in a foam-walled box.” She took a tiny, tentative step toward him and flipped to the back of the pad.
Her eyes were big and luminescent and so damn nervous—they were also locked on his. Something passed between them, something charged and dangerous, but she didn’t glance away.
Liquid courage, he thought. Earlier that afternoon she had a hard time meeting his gaze. Now, it was as though neither could look away. A slow sizzle started to build, and he found himself being pulled, once again, into her sexy vortex.
He cleared his throat. “May I?”
Spell broken, she blinked and stepped all the way back. “Yes, I mean sure. I mean, please do.”
Biting back a grin, he stepped up to the desk and glanced down at a drawing of a recording studio. The vibe echoed the music room and recording studio she’d designed in this house, with clean lines and different textures. It turned a basic home studio into a sleek, top-of-the-line sound room like the ones he’d recorded at in LA.
The longer he studied it, the more anxious she became until he could feel the nerves rolling off her in waves. He knew a simple “like” or “dislike” wasn’t what she was looking for. And a design this spectacular deserved more. “What are the walls made from?”
It was as if all the tension from earlier disappeared and she gifted him this bright, familiar smile that reminded him of their one mind-blowing weekend nearly a decade ago. This time he wasn’t that lovesick college kid, he was a grown man who knew better than to mess around with a woman whose heart was clearly battered and bruised.
“Aren’t they beautiful? They’re made from hemlock wood and designed for acoustical performance. A sound engineer in Holland created it with his wife. He wanted a home studio, she’s a designer, so they invented it together.” She looked over at him and that’s when he realized how close she’d moved—kissably close. “Isn’t that romantic.”
