“Brie.” I rolled my eyes, my cheeks heating beneath her scrutiny. “I’m just helping him out. That’s all.”
“If you say so,” she said, returning her attention to her laptop.
“Brie,” I hissed, aggravated that she could read me so well.
“What?” She shrugged, a smug smile gracing her lips.
“There’s nothing going on between us.”
“Okay.”I knew she’d never leave it at just that. I could tell from her expression that she was skeptical.
I could understand why. I hadn’t returned to the apartment until well after she’d gone to bed the past few nights. But I was driven to help Xander, and it was easy to lose track of time when I was with him.
I glanced down at my anatomy textbook. Though I was supposed to be studying the muscles of the torso, my attention kept returning to the wrist, Xander’s wrist specifically. I could feel his frustration, and I could understand it. He’d spent his whole life drawing one way, only to have to change it. It was his passion, his identity, his entire world. And now he was being forced to adapt.
I was still trying to wrap my head around everything that had happened. He was hurting, that much was sure. And while I understood his frustration, his fear, I had a stronger desire to help him. To help him overcome his limitations and restore his love of drawing and painting.
“Kate,” Brie whispered. I glanced up at her, only to notice her eyes were wide, intent on something behind me. “He’s here.”
“Who?” I whipped my head around and found Xander looking at me as if my thoughts had summoned him. His gaze was intense, his blue eyes shocking. “Oh.”
He crooked a finger, and I stood, lured to him. When I was near enough, he grasped my bicep and pulled me behind him. I startled at his rougher touch, but a part of me liked it, craved it. He didn’t speak, but I could glean enough from his expression that he wasn’t happy.
The door to one of the private study rooms closed behind us with a snick, and he released my arm. His much larger body seemed to eliminate any space from the room, any breath from my lungs. He was always so…intense.
He ran a hand through his curls, the gesture rough, agitated. “I’m pulling out of the exhibition.”
My mouth gaped open. “What? Since when?”
“Since this morning.” He glanced toward the ceiling, his deep exhale laden with regret.
What the heck had happened? “When I left, you seemed sort of happy—well, as happy as I imagine you ever get.”
The corner of his mouth twitched as if he were fighting back a grin, but then his expression darkened. “I don’t think the piece is up to my usual standard. Actually, that’s not true—it’s shit.”
I jerked my head back. “Shit?” I imagined the piece he’d created, and it wasn’t shit.
“Yes, shit. It’s completely different from anything I’ve ever painted or shown.”
I stared at him. Was he serious? “It’s also unique and beautiful. It’s your creation, and you should embrace it.”
“Embrace it,” he scoffed. “Embrace it?” He started pacing, but in the small room and with his large frame, he couldn’t go far. “What will the gallery say? And what about the critics?”
“How did you feel when you were painting it?”
He paused, brow furrowed. I had the odd sensation of wanting to smooth the skin with my fingers. “How did I feel?”
“Yes.” I nodded. “How did you feel when you were drawing it?”
He hesitated a moment before answering, “Good. It felt… No. It felt amazing.”
I smiled, having expected as much, but it was nice to have confirmation. It was a good sign that he could admit it to himself. “That’s all that matters.”
“Yeah, but what if no one wants to buy them? What if—”
I stepped forward, placing my finger against his lips. “Let me stop you right there,” I interrupted him, my eyes intent on his lips, on my finger on his lips. “What if everyone loves it? What if they can’t buy them fast enough?”
He huffed a laugh, his breath warm against my finger. And I wondered what his lips would feel like against mine. What his breath would feel like against my skin. I sucked in a jagged breath and removed my finger, tucking my hands behind my back before I made a fool of myself.
