“Your home is…homey,” he told her.
She tilted her head, blinking owlishly, and then she was giggling, and he didn’t blame her.
“Damned with faint praise!” The words were a gasp, barely intelligible.
“I meant—” He closed his eyes, impatient with himself. “It wasn’t intended to—”
She was slightly bent at the waist, bracing herself against her refrigerator with one hand, eyes bright as a torch as she laughed at him.
He couldn’t help it. He had to laugh with her, because, yes.Homey.
She wiped at her eyes, and he wanted to do it for her.
So he did.
Reaching out slowly, carefully, he cupped her sweet face in his hands. Her breath caught, and her eyes flew to his. He brushed away her tears of hilarity with a light, careful sweep of his thumbs.
Her skin was so fucking soft. So warm under his fingertips. As he stared down at her, those pink lips parted, and she wet them with her tongue.
He wasn’t laughing anymore. Neither was she.
But he wasn’t entirely certain yet, and he needed to be before this went any further.
When he lowered his hands and stepped back, she drew one shuddering breath. Another. He did the same.
When his control returned, so did his ability to speak. “May I visit your workroom?”
“Y—” Her swallow was audible in the stillness of her home. “Yes.”
He followed her down the hall to the room at the very end, forbidding his eyes to wander in search of her bed through the darkened doorways they passed.
When she flicked the light switch, he smiled at the vivid turquoise of her walls, then studied the space itself and how she’d transformed it.
This was her master bedroom. Or, at least, it had been. She’d made it her workspace instead, and no wonder. Given the multitude of windows and the French doors leading outside, the room no doubt received plenty of light. Perfect for an artist’s studio. One of the walls was lined, floor to ceiling, with yet more white-painted shelves, each filled neatly with a labeled box.
She gestured to them. “I had a carpenter install the shelves before I moved in. I have so many supplies, it seemed like the best option.”
Her work table was huge and solid, the wooden surface scarred, stained, and entirely free from dust. A mesh chair was positioned by its side. On top of the table sat her diorama-in-progress, complete with a male corpse sprawled on a rumpled bed, one who appeared to have been stabbed in his—
Involuntarily, Simon took a step backward.
She snickered. “Yeah, I imagine that will be most men’s reaction.”
“Did he deserve”—deep breath—“that?”
“Oh, definitely.” Her cheeks plumped with her wicked grin. “Making this body anatomically correct was even more fun than usual.”
He wanted to ask for more detail, but he also very much didn’t.
Instead of contemplating the murder victim’s mangled member, he studied the tools of her trade. She’d positioned a free-standing magnifier and a mug of paint brushes next to the miniature crime scene. A handful of other supplies—tweezers, various glues, tubes of paint—also sat nearby her work in a tidy pile.
She nudged a single-hair brush with her blunt fingertip. “I try to put away anything I won’t be using soon, because otherwise I don’t have enough space to work. Or, worse, I’ll inadvertently contaminate my scene with something that isn’t supposed to be there.”
Controlled, meticulous mess, just like her classroom.
There was no television in the room, no computer, no electronics of any sort—with one exception. On the shelf closest to her desk, she’d set up a little speaker for her cell phone.
Her eyes followed his. “I listen to music or podcasts while I work, usually.” When he didn’t respond, she let out a long breath. “Say something, Simon. Is this too creepy, or too—”
