The spare bedroom contained a drawing table and various art supplies, even though Frank did most of his work at the dining table or in his armchair. The living room and dining room had a small assortment of decent furniture, a bookshelf stuffed mostly with art references, and a few of his own pieces framed and hanging on the walls.
And, of course, the frogs sat in their large tank in the corner of the living room. Carver had explored the entire house before stopping in front of the terrarium. “Handsome fellows.”
“A guy brought a bunch of them into the studio for a couple of days so we could observe. Well, mostly so I could observe, since I’m drawing the prince in frog form. I thought they were interesting, and the fellow said I could have a couple.”
“I like them,” Carver announced. “They look like they’re thinking deep thoughts. And I see they’re in a holiday mood.”
One of Frank’s dumb blushes heated his cheeks. “I was at the store and saw the tree and elves….” Which wasn’t a complete lie, although it skipped the fact that he’d been specifically looking for items like that.
“The decorations are nice.” Carver bent to get a better look, which incidentally gave Frank an excellent view of his ass. It was the type of ass that deserved to be memorialized in art. Frank had to suppress a sigh.
Carver spent a few moments wiggling his finger near the glass in an apparent attempt to get the frogs’ attention. “Not the cuddliest of housemates, I guess, but at least they won’t scratch the furniture or bite the mailman. What are their names?”
Oh no. Frank should have anticipated this and come up with aliases. They wouldn’t have complained. But now his mind was a pristine sheet of paper, and Carver was looking back over his shoulder and awaiting an answer. Shit. “Reed and Carver,” Frank mumbled. As if saying the names in that order would keep Carver—the human one—from realizing what Frank had done.
“Pardon me?” Carver gave a small shrug. “Hearing’s not great. Too much time around jet engines.”
Now Frank’s blush flared into a conflagration. “Reed. And Carver.”
His guest looked delighted. “Really? You’re not just saying that? I don’t think anyone’s ever been named after me.”
“They’re just frogs. And I’m sure plenty of women have named their kids Carver because of you.”
“Those kids should be named Chaim. ’Cause that’s me, Chaim Roth. Or it was, until I changed it. And yeah, I know, I don’t look Jewish.” He said the last phrase in a sing-song tone. “My mother’s a shiksa. And I can see that Carver and Reed here clearly celebrate Christmas.”
“I could get them a tiny menorah.”
“Nah. Hanukkah was last week.”
“I’ll change the frogs’ names if it’s too… strange.”
Carver pointed a finger at Frank. “Don’t you dare! I’ll be deeply offended if you call them anything else.” He bent over again and cooed at his namesakes for a few moments while Frank enjoyed the view and tried to memorize it for later sketches.
When Carver stood and turned, he faced the dining room, with the table clearly visible through the wide doorway. “That’s a nice pile of gifts. Big family?”
“Friends. Have you met Paul Blanchard? He’s one of the writers. Those are for his clan.”
“Don’t know him, sorry to say. You must be close.”
“He’s a good man. He and his wife, Lillian, they’re sort of… parental, I guess.”
Carver nodded thoughtfully. “Nice to have.” He drained his glass, set it on the end table, and spread his arms slightly. “You said you needed me?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly.
Oh dammit, here came that blush again. Frank kept his head high and pretended that his face wasn’t bright red. “I thought, um, maybe it would be useful to observe you in a more naturalistic setting. The frog prince isn’t spending his days in a studio.” He also wasn’t spending them in a Burbank bungalow, but Frank declined to mention that.
Carver’s expression became so downright wicked that Frank’s breath caught. His trousers were loose and pleated, but none of that was going to disguise what was going on at his groin. Desperately, he snatched the nearest sketchbook to use as a very poor—and obvious—attempt at camouflage.
This seemed to amuse Carver a great deal. “Naturalistic, huh? And you’d like to see more of me.” His eyes sparkled.
Uh-oh. Frank suspected he was in deep trouble—and then knew it for sure when Carver unzipped his pullover and, well, pulled it over. He tossed it onto the sofa, to be followed swiftly by his undershirt. “Did you take life drawing classes in art school, Frank?”
It took Frank a moment to answer, distracted by that muscular chest with a dusting of light hair, by that slightly soft belly that looked so touchable that he nearly whimpered. “Yeah,” he finally managed.
“I modeled for those a couple of times when I needed to make rent. I enjoyed it. In case you haven’t figured it out by now, I like to be watched. And I’m pretty sure, Frank, that you like watching me. Why not make both of us happy? Are you up for some life drawing?”
Frank looked him straight in the eyes. “Yes.”
“I’m so glad to hear that.”
