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His forehead creases.
“A celestial hunter, huh?” He snorts. “I’ll have you know I’m opposed to the assholes who hunt endangered game. A few months ago, I made a hefty donation to a startup big cat sanctuary in this North Dakota oil town.”
“You’re missing the point, Warden. You’re a human rock, ideal for a likeness. Your upper body is contoured, lines and planes everywhere. Holding up a club like the caveman you are and getting ready to whack someone would capture that beautifully. Picture how you’d look if you had a crack at that Osprey guy you hate so much.”
“Shit, when you put it like that...” A devilish smirk spreads across his face, and he stands. “Are you saying I’m beautiful?”
Uh-oh.
“Does this help?” He takes the Orion pose in his cavernous living room, a beast against the background of the finest rock hearth I’ve ever seen. “Well? Don’t keep me waiting forever.”
Kinda hard when I’m awestruck.
“Technically? Yes. You’re almost flawless—from an artist’s standpoint, of course.” Way to dodge the question, Paige.
“I have scars from Iraq.”
“Perfection’s overrated. They’re straight lines and light, and the ink draws the eye right off them. All warriors have scars, Ward. It adds depth. Again, speaking technically. Don’t tell me you skipped mythology class?”
“Grandma would’ve had a whole herd of cattle if I did,” he throws back. “So I’m beautiful with depth? That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
I shrug. “Yeah, well, thank your genetics.”
There’s a loud knock at the door.
“That’s the food! I’ll get it, I’m starving.”
Ward rushes ahead of me. “No, you won’t.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I can see through that pink shirt, and nobody will mind my technical beauty,” he says, pressing forward before I can react.
I look down.
Crap.
He goes to the door and I dread finding out if my shirt really is see-through.
Oh, hell.
Maybe it’s not the food, but a coroner coming to record my time of death.
My nipples are definitely visible. And Ward Brandt has been staring at them the whole time, hasn’t he?
Frantic, I look around for something to save me.
A hoodie I’ve never seen Ward wear—he doesn’t strike me as a hoodie guy—hangs from a coat hanger in the corner. I grab it, yank it on, and zip up like a turtle.
The sleeves fall past my hands, so I roll them up to my elbows.
Ward reappears a minute later holding a pizza box and a tall chocolate shake. “Looks better on you than it does me.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” I say sarcastically, looking at my leg where the hem hangs way too low.
“But I preferred you wearing one layer, truthfully.”
I. Am. Dead.
He sets the pizza on the coffee table and presses my shake into already frozen hands. He opens the box and we both grab a slice of Chicago’s finest, tossing them on small plates his butler must leave out for snacks.
Ward takes a huge bite. “Okay, I’m not going to make you tell me why the douchebag calls you Sketch Paige, but who was he?”
“What makes you think he’s a douchebag?”
Ward shrugs, anchoring me with his stare. “Your face was red. You tensed in my arms. Something wasn’t right. It reminded me of the night I met you.” He pauses. “Paige, I’m sorry if I took it too far with that kiss. I just wanted him to leave you alone.”
I nod. “If I have to tell you who he is, I might as well tell you Sketch Paige was what he always called me. He’s my ex-fi—” I stop mid-word. Everyone calls him my ex-fiancé, but that’s stupid. We never made it that far. He’s really just the dumbass ex-boyfriend every college girl has. “He’s my ex-boyfriend.”
I bite a chunk of pizza off my fork so I can focus on chewing instead of the heated glare looking right through me.
“You almost said the f-word,” he says quietly.
I look away, studying the pizza on my plate. “He told me he wanted to marry me—”
“A lie men often use to get—”
“Yep. Hindsight, twenty-twenty. I’m not even sure if that was it, though. The night before I broke up with him, I overheard his friend saying he needed to put a ring on my finger before he graduated. He said he needed to ‘trade up,’ and had his sights on the broker’s daughter. I wasn’t good enough.”
“I knew it,” Ward snarls. “I should’ve bashed that fuckboy’s head in when I had the chance.”
An unexpected smile bites my face.
“It was years ago. I’m long over it. It’s ok—”
“It’s not okay, Paige. That was horrible, and I’m more than half serious about collapsing his skull. Also, I lied. I had to know why he called you Sketch Paige.”
I laugh. “You should have just asked. That one’s easier—”
“No, I had to know who he was and what he meant to you.”
It’s harder to pull away from his gaze than pinch a clean bite off my pizza through the gluey cheese.
