“Thank you,” the student said.
I watched him out of my peripheral vision, saw him move to the next student and her canvas. Xander crossed his arms over his chest, resting his chin in his hand. He seemed to stand there a long time before finally nodding. “Yes. Very good. Excellent shading on the breasts and stomach. Though, this one should be a bit fuller than you’ve drawn it. She’s perfectly proportioned.”
I swallowed hard, feeling my body heating from the inside out. Obviously, I knew he was looking at me, evaluating me. And he—like the students—had been nothing but professional. Even still, there was something there. Some…connection. I didn’t know how to describe it, just that it existed. Like I knew a Monet was a Monet and that General’s made my favorite charcoal pencils.
When Xander announced it was time for another break, my shoulders sagged with relief. We’d progressed through a series of standing and sitting poses, and I was eager to move on to the reclining positions. Eager to finish modeling so I could see the shocked look on Brie’s face when I told her what I’d done.
After I’d pulled on my robe, I walked from easel to easel during the break, admiring the students’ work. It was an odd sensation, to view my body through their eyes. And I liked seeing what each of them focused on. For some, it was my hands, for others, my hair. Everyone seemed to emphasize a different attribute, and it filled me with a sense of pride and ownership. Each artist had glorified parts of me that I didn’t necessarily find sexy or even beautiful. And it gave me a new perspective, a renewed sense of confidence.
“All right,” Xander said, interrupting the students’ quiet chatter. “Just one more pose, and then we’re done.”
Everyone made their way back to their places. The students to their easels and me to the massage table that had been draped with a sheet. I folded my arm behind my head, relaxing into a pose that was the most comfortable one so far.
I closed my eyes and went through one of my favorite meditation exercises—the body scan. I relaxed each and every part of my body from head to toe until I was overcome with a sense of calm, of peace. I could still hear the scratch of the charcoal against canvas, the shifting of people in the space surrounding me, but I was in my own world.
My own world where Xander ran his finger along my skin, tracing the lines of my curves. Where he pressed his lips to my collarbone before trailing his way down my breasts and over my stomach. My chest rose and fell, and I struggled to retain control. Especially when I imagined him climbing on top of me, sliding the tip of his erection over my—
I let out a small moan, and it felt like everyone stilled.Oh my god.
I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could disappear. Talk about mortifying. I didn’t know if farting would have been more or less embarrassing. And I still couldn’t move, not until Xander said so.
Waiting was agony, and it felt like years passed before he said, “That’s all for today. Great job, class.”
I bolted upright, wrapping the robe around me as I sped toward the changing area. The other students were too busy packing up their supplies or chatting to notice my freak-out. But I could feel Xander’s eyes on me as I crossed the room as quickly as I could without running.
“Kate,” Xander called when I emerged from the changing area. “Can I speak with you a moment?”
“Sorry.” I clutched my tote to my chest, feeling like I needed to shield myself. “I have to go.”
I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. And if I never saw Xander—or any of those students—again, it would be too soon.
Chapter One
AFew Days Earlier
I staredat the blank canvas, feeling as if I might explode. Every time I tried to pick up charcoal, a pencil, a paintbrush—nothing. I feltnothing. I wasn’t inspired; I was frozen.
My phone rang, and I was grateful for the distraction until I saw who was calling—Theo. My twin brother and manager. And, more often than not, a pain in my ass.
I considered sending it straight to voice mail, but I knew he’d just keep calling. Or worse, he’d decide to pop by. And I definitely didn’t want him stopping by unannounced and seeing all the work Ihadn’tbeen doing.
I scrambled to answer the phone. “Hey.”
“How are the pieces coming for the new exhibition?” His voice echoed in my studio, bouncing off the concrete floors and high walls.
“Um—” I glanced around, faced with blank canvas after blank canvas. It was a good thing he’d called instead of coming over. “Good. Yeah. It’s going good.”
“Bullshit,” he coughed.
“Yeah, so, I may be a little behind.” Understatement of the fucking century. There had been instances in the past when I was a little behind. I hadn’t even started yet, well, unless you counted the pieces I’d completed before my accident. Which I didn’t.
He puffed out a breath. “Xander, we talked about this. The doctors say your wrist is fine. Your physical therapist cleared you to start painting again weeks ago.”
“I know,” I ground out, more frustrated with myself than anything else.
I’d spent months waiting for this, waiting to paint again. And now that I could, I couldn’t. Or at least, something in my brain was telling me I couldn’t.
“Then what’s going on?”
