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Cade stabbed his steak as Lucia bent over the sketchbook. A long band of hair fell across her good cheek, and her body leaned forward as if every inch of her was invested in her creation. It was fucking mesmerizing. How the hell was he going to walk away from her?
You don’t have to. Not yet.
“I do want more,” he said.
She looked up at the sound of his voice, her brown eyes widening.
“I want to see your dress hit the floor,” he continued. “The minute we step inside your room, I want you naked on the bed. And tonight, I plan to work through every fantasy on my list.”
Lucia focused on the paper, trying to mask her disappointment. When he’d said those words—I do want more—her hope had surged. The fantasy would follow her home, bringing the best piece of her Vegas vacation back to her day-to-day life.
Except that wasn’t what he’d meant.
She could walk away from the fancy restaurants and the breathtaking fountains. She’d survive with the memory of little umbrellas in her drinks. But she couldn’t ignore her desire to keep Cade in her life.
And in the moments after his orgasm, he’d looked like he wanted it, too. He’d kissed her as if he needed to claim parts of her body, to feel connected to her while she touched him under the table.
But more wasn’t part of the plan. Not beyond their sexual connection. Not beyond this weekend. She should know. She’d set the rules from the beginning. This ended tomorrow when she returned to Tennessee.
“I’d better get to work on this portrait.” Her hand moved quickly, painting the after look from memory. The man tearing into his steak as if he hadn’t eaten in days had already drawn up his defenses, blocking her out again.
She cocked her head, studying the incomplete picture. The lines and colors looked right, but something was missing. She touched the brush to the paper and tried again.
“You’re talented.” His low voice splintered her focus, and she lifted the brush off the page. “I can’t believe you’re doing all of that with a set of watercolors from the Vegas mall. I was serious when I asked to see the rest of your work.”
“I have a few pictures on my phone.” She set the brush down, reached into her purse, and withdrew her cell. She entered the pass code and clicked on the photo icon. “You’re welcome to scroll through them.”
She returned her attention to her current work-in-progress. Something was off. The image failed to convey emotion.
She bit her lower lip. Maybe the piece wasn’t working because she wanted to portray a feeling that hadn’t been part of the scene in the first place. He’d had an orgasm, not an epiphany that opened his eyes to a new future—one that included her.
She set the brush on the table, leaving the painting incomplete, and reached for her dinner.
“Maybe I’ll get to see the real thing one day,” he said, still paging through the images on her phone.
A shiver ran through her, every inch of her silently screaming, yes, please.
“Or maybe you’ll let me keep one of the paintings from tonight,” he added.
Not the disastrous after, she thought, letting her hope fade.
“Maybe,” she said softly.
He held out her cell. “When did you paint this one?”
She set the fork on her plate and pretended to take a closer look, even though she knew which one was on the screen. The light pastels, the vague illusions of silhouettes holding hands by the water—she’d recognize that piece anywhere.
“That’s one of my first paintings. It still hangs in my studio where I can see it before I start my day, or while I’m working.” She picked up her drink, downing the bubbly liquid in a few quick gulps.
Years ago, she’d struggled to create that image, too, scared to record what she felt versus what she wished to feel. But sometimes emotions were like mountains. She couldn’t move and change them to suit the picture she wanted to create.
“Does this convey a single emotion?” he asked, focused on the small image that represented a huge piece of her life. “About what happened?”
Her hand went to her cheek. For a little while, her face had slipped into the background. She’d walked into a restaurant and sat through most of a meal without the jagged lines dictating her movements and reactions. “No, this piece isn’t related to the incident or my scars.”
He looked up, and his gaze met hers. And then he turned to his steak. Had he seen too much? Did one look leave him wondering if she wanted to rewrite the rules for their weekend?
“I’d been in therapy for months,” she said quickly. “And I felt they were ignoring a large part of who I was. I began lashing out. And at one point, I refused to paint. Bethany, the therapist who introduced the idea of using art, insisted my feelings were linked to my foster father. So I painted this to show her that I was still heartbroken over the loss of my parents.”
