Page 43

“I’ve never understood how you can look at a piece of rock and see the art that’s lying dormant inside of it,” he said.

“I’ve never really been able to see it any other way,” she said.

He smiled. “Do you know, I think that’s what I’m most jealous of. You create beauty. You make things people treasure and look at with wonder.”

“Then I suppose I should be envious of you,” she said.

“Why?”

“You forget, I’ve long admired your writing,” she said. “I was waiting outside the bookstore before it was open the day your novel came out.”

“You were?” he asked quietly.

She nodded. “And do you know what I did when I finished it? I flipped back to the beginning, and I read it all over.”

“Why?”

“Because I was trying to figure out what it would be like to write like that. I can pen a serviceable letter or answer an invitation, but the written word eludes me in a way I’m sure you’ve never even thought of.”

A long pause stretched out between them, but it wasn’t awkward or fraught. Instead it felt . . . contemplative, as though he was letting her confession sink in.

Finally he said, “I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything at all. Just know that’s how I see you.”

“Moray and Eva think I’ve been in the office too much,” he said.

Her lips quirked. “Of that I have no doubt, but then, I can hardly judge. You had to bring me a sandwich because I’d forgotten to eat.”

“Both married to our work,” he said.

“And neither of us would have it any other way.”

Yet she knew in her heart that it wasn’t enough. She wanted him wandering into her studio at odd hours to distract her and him sliding up to her at parties with a glass of wine in hand at just the right moment. She missed the companionship that came along with long rides in Holyrood Park and discussions about some novel or another they’d both just read.

But that’s not all you miss.

Her friend. Her lover. She wanted them both, but she didn’t know how to bridge that gulf again.

“I think it’s time for me to retire for the night,” she said.

Instead of bidding her good night, he took two steps forward. Then another. He was standing in front of her, his body throwing off heat and wrapping her in his masculine scent. It took everything she had not to lean into him. His lips were so close, if she just went up on her toes she could slip her arms around his neck and pull him into a kiss. But she didn’t dare. Instead she stood stone-still, fearing that one wrong move might break the spell of reconciliation that seemed to have settled over them that evening.

Hesitating, he settled a hand on the top of her arm and slid it down, tracing over her elbow and down to her exposed wrist. He circled his fingers around it, showing just how small she was compared to him. Another shiver, this one of satisfaction, for feeling delicate and diminutive was a foreign idea to a woman whose dressmaker clucked in disapproval at the developed muscles of her arms.

The press of flesh against flesh heated her cheeks. She didn’t know how much longer she could bear his touch without combusting.

“Gavin, I should go to bed,” she said, her voice cracking with the strain of holding back.

His thumb skimmed over the tops of her fingers, caressing ridge after ridge. “I know I’ve been neglectful.”

There were the words she’d thought herself a dozen times over the last week.

“I hadn’t noticed,” she said, straightening her shoulders.

“You’ve always been a terrible liar,” he said.

“I haven’t had much cause to lie in my life.”