Zain is crossing the narrow space between our houses.
“Oh, no.”
I scramble upright.
The unfinished portrait.
My blood turns cold.
I rush across the room, grab the paint-splattered drop cloth folded beside the easel, and throw it over the canvas. I am still trying to arrange it so no suspicious corner of Zain’s painted jaw is visible when someone knocks on the front door.
“Coming!”
I freeze.
Why did I yell?
Another knock follows, heavier this time.
I smooth both hands over my hair, which makes absolutely no difference, then hurry to the door.
I open it.
Zain fills the porch.
He looks tired up close. There are faint shadows beneath his eyes, and dark stubble roughens his jaw. His gaze moves over me quickly, taking in my oversized shirt, bare legs, and probably the red mark already forming on my knee.
Then his eyes return to mine.
“You all right?”
“Yes.”
He studies me.
I smile.
His expression does not change.
“Why?”
“Thought I saw you fall.”
My knee throbs in accusation.
“I did not fall.”
One eyebrow lifts.
“I lowered myself unexpectedly.”
His gaze holds mine for several seconds, and I have the uncomfortable feeling that Zain Carson could make a guilty person confess simply by waiting long enough.
“You hit something.”
“The table.”
“So you fell.”
