The studio had grown quieter now that the evening traffic outside had thinned. Faint music drifted from a radio near the reception desk, mixing with the soft scrape of brushstrokes against drywall.
He felt awkward just standing there while she worked. “Need any help?”
“No, thanks. I’m almost done for the night anyway.” She flexed her fingers around the brush handle. “My arm’s starting to protest.”
Sean laughed. For one dangerous second, he almost offered to massage it for her, but considering the dreams he’d already had about Grace Whitman last night, that probably wasn’t the smartest idea.
“Have you eaten yet?” he asked instead. “I’m starving. While you finish up, I could run over to Basil’s and grab us a pizza.”
Her face brightened. “That sounds amazing. Their pizza is the best. I haven’t had it since I moved back, and I’ve been craving it.”
“Toppings?”
She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes sparkling. “Pepperoni. Lots of it.”
“Works for me.” He headed for the door, feeling lighter than he had all day.
“And don’t forget paper plates and napkins.”
He lifted a hand in acknowledgment before stepping out into the cooling evening air.
When he returned, the scent of paint faded beneath the mouth-watering aroma of hot pizza filling the studio. Grace had cleaned the brushes and washed the paint from her hands by then. Sean shrugged out of his sports coat and draped it over the reception counter before joining her on the carpet with his back against one of the finished walls. The open pizza box rested between them beside two cold bottles of cola.
Outside, darkness had settled over Whisper, the storefront windows reflecting the glow from inside the studio. A cool breeze rattled the front door now and then while the old building creaked softly around them. Hungry and tired, they ate in comfortable silence, and for the first time since the middle-of-the-night call from Matt, Sean felt like he could finally breathe without the weight of the case pressing quite so hard against him.
Reaching for a second slice, Grace asked, “So what case are you working on? No offense, but I assume it can’t be good if you were asked to get involved.”
Sean finished his bite before answering. “No, it isn’t good. It’s a homicide—a female victim under strange circumstances.”
He left it at that. The serial aspect hadn’t been released yet, and after spending the entire day staring at crime scene photos and autopsy reports, he had no desire to drag that darkness into this room.
Grace studied him for a moment in the soft overhead light. “You can’t tell me anything more, can you?”
“Not really.” He reached for a third slice. He hadn’t exaggerated about being hungry. The pizza sat a whole lot better in his stomach than the sandwich he’d forced down after the autopsy. “Sorry.”
“No problem.” She set her paper plate aside and took a swig of cola. “I had a lot of friends on the NYPD. They couldn’t talk about their cases much either.” Her gaze drifted toward the painted wall. “Thanks for dinner.”
“You’re welcome.” He nodded toward the golfer's silhouette. “The place is coming together. You’re pretty talented.”
Grace snorted softly. “I’m a good tracer, not an artist. I borrowed an old overhead projector from the elementary school, projected athlete outlines onto the walls, and traced them.”
He studied the unfinished section beside the golfer and spotted the faint pencil outline of a baseball player holding a bat. “Still better than anything I could do.”
Her smile warmed him far more than it should have.
Without thinking, he reached over and caught a strand of her hair between his fingers. Soft as silk. The simple touch sent heat through him before common sense slammed on the brakes.
When a puzzled expression crossed her face, he dropped his hand fast. “Sorry. You had paint in your hair.”
He was finding it harder by the minute to ignore his attraction to her. The problem was, he still had no clue whether Grace felt the same way or saw him as nothing more than part of the extended family orbit she’d grown up around.
Before he could do something foolish—like touch her hair again—he pushed to his feet and started gathering up the empty paper plates and pizza box. “I’d better get going. It’s been a long day. I’ll dump this out back.”
She stood, too, brushing a few strands of hair behind her ear. “I’m exhausted myself. I’ll probably sleep like the dead tonight.” She winced the second the words left her mouth. “Sorry. Bad choice of phrase.”
A quiet laugh escaped him. “Trust me, I’ve heard far worse. Agents and cops tend to have a pretty twisted sense of humor.”
The smile she gave him held a touch of relief.
