I wasn’t about to tell him how right he was, that it wasn’t the critics or even the buyer’s rejections that cut me to the quick. Those wounds had come from much closer to home. It had been Riley, whose parents’ money meant his family had made connections in all sorts of social circles, even in the California art world. And he was always on the verge of introducing me to someone important, if only I would create a piece worthy enough. And then there were my parents. They loved me. I never doubted that. And they supported me as much as they could. But I was the weird drawing, painting, sculpting unicorn who’d been dropped into a family of business people. They’d never known quite what to do with that or with me.
I glanced at Nick. “Maybe I’m very sensitive to my reviews.”
“I’m sure negative ones suck, but you seem like the kind of woman who’s mentally tough enough to take it.”
Was that a compliment? “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. And for the record, I think that piece is frigging amazing. Every time I look at it, I feel something different, something new.” He turned his laser-focused gaze away from me. “Your piece at Mason’s bar is like that, too. The first time I saw it...” He seemed to shiver. “Let’s say it unsettled me. Actually, it freaked me out.”
“Freaked you out?” I tried not to grin. Nowthatwas a reaction to art. “That’s pretty cool.”
“You’re welcome, I guess.”
Now I did smile. “I’d say sorry, but making you feel something is the point.”
“I know. I had a little bit of art education when I was a kid. The truth is I didn’t appreciate it much at the time. All I really learned was to recognize what I like.” He turned and looked atMother Treeagain. “And this piece, I like. I like it very, very much.”
“Thank you.” Now I couldn’t stop grinning. “I must say, Mr. Roman, you have excellent taste in art. And also, damn you.”
“Whoa, what did I do now?” He said it softly, obviously taking no real offense.
“You’re being very likable.”
“And that’s a problem because...?”
Because it makes it too easy to forget I’m not attracted to you. That was another thing I could never tell him. “That’s my own shit. But really, thanks.” I slid another sideways glance at him. “And did you sayfriggingearlier? That’s the way my grandma swears.”
He grinned. “Maybe your grandma and I went to school together.”
“Stop it. Even I realize you’re not quite that old.” My stomach chose that moment to twist and growl. Loudly.
“Did you have an early breakfast?” He pulled out a phone. “I’ll find someplace to grab a snack. I could use one myself.”
“Can you make it someplace that has sandwiches? I saw on the detailed, two-page itinerary you emailed me that our lunch stop is at 1400 hours, which Google told me is 2 p.m., so I’ll need something a little more substantial than a snack for my first meal of the day.”
“First meal... Are you telling me you didn’t eat breakfast?”
“I never eat breakfast.”
He shook his head and when I glanced in his direction, he was wide-eyed as if he were genuinely shocked. “If I’d had this information, I would have insisted on taking the first shift of driving. You can’t fully concentrate if you haven’t even fueled your body yet.”
I ignored the fact that he’d just mentioned my body. He’d said it so casually, yet I’d felt it to my core. And now I was thinking about his body. His very sleek-muscled, well-fueled body.
I cleared my throat and tried, unsuccessfully, to clear my mind, but I did manage to keep my voice light as I spoke. “The breakfast-is-the-most-important-meal-of-the-day speech? Now you’re channeling my grandmotherandmy mother.”
He held up his phone. “Maybe, but with my post-breakfast, clear-thinking mind, I found a great place just off the highway that will only add a few minutes to my very reasonable, not-all-that-detailed schedule. Tomorrow, we’ll have a real breakfast and you’ll come to appreciate the wisdom of your elders.”
In the span a few minutes, Nick had reminded me of our differences, from our ages to our planning approaches to our breakfast philosophies. Despite how smoothly he’d done it, I suspected the reminders had been intentional. Maybe he wasn’t as annoying as I’d originally thought, but he was still off limits, and he was doing everything short of stating it outright to telegraph that message loud and clear.
At precisely 2:03 p.m., we pulled into the parking lot of a food-truck park just over the Arizona state line. The small town was the first stop on my list, but the gem of a lunch spot was all his doing. Any lingering regrets I’d had about giving in and sending him a list of my planned stops evaporated. The smell of so many delicious, savory options made my stomach grumble more loudly than it had that morning.
“I don’t know how I’ll pick one,” I said.
“So, pick more than one.” Nick nodded toward a truck with a lot of pictures of chicken dishes and salads. “I’m headed over there, then I’ll get a seat for us at one of the picnic tables.” He handed me some cash. “Get as many different things as you want.”
I held up my hands. “You don’t need to buy my lunch.”
“Yes, I do.” He pressed the bills into my hand. “That was our deal.” He walked away without a backward look, giving me no chance to argue further.
