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“I have no doubt the masterpiece will be museum-worthy in under thirty minutes.” The biting sarcasm is very obvious, and I rise to it with glee.
“No doubt it will be vastly superior to anything you’ve ever created.”
Ash walks to the door. He grips the doorframe and turns, and I swear I see his eyes dancing with humor. Maybe he just really likes art. Or it could be that I’m not the only one who likes a challenge. “I wouldn’t be so cruel as to set you up for failure, but if you want to do it yourself, I’m not going to stop you.” He drops that and leaves, and somehow, he does it all without sounding like his old, combative, not-so-nice self.
For a minute, he has this sort of soft, serene expression on his face, and it nearly makes me panic because it almost looks like he wants to come back into this room and do something crazy, like hug me. I can imagine his strong arms wrapping around me, holding me close, and I can imagine fisting my hands in his shirt and dragging him to me. My body becomes instantly shivery, my nipples and ovaries pulsing—if they can pulse because they certainly feel like they can—my palms damp, and my breathing erratic.
Luckily, Ash turns and leaves before anything crazy can happen. I mean, crazier than us not being adversaries. Are we really on the same team now? It’s so freaking hard to imagine, but then I glance down at the ring, and I get it. This is just for the ring. It’s all for the ring. It doesn’t have anything to do with us personally. I think. Tomorrow, I can still go back to wanting to explore him like a new asshole. I mean, tear into him like the asshole he is. Holy guacamole, this curse is warping my mind.
What’s wrong with me that I feel a bubble of excitement? I shouldn’t be looking forward to any bit of this other than handing in a story that wrecks Asherly Cromwell’s life. I know I’ve said it once, but I’ll say it again. The curse is real. Very, very real. And I’m hardcore blaming it for what happens from here on out.
CHAPTER 8
Ash
By the time the food gets here—a stir-fry because it’s both delicious and healthy—it’s been forty minutes, so I head upstairs to check on my new artist’s masterpiece.
Maybe part of me is worried she’ll outdo me. Or I’m just scared to go up and talk to Ellis because I’m starting to wonder if maybe a new madness is taking hold of me, erasing doubts and sanity and good judgment. Halfway up the stairs and down the hall to the large room I use as my studio, I’m already thinking of Ellis in there, working on a canvas and bringing it to life. The thought of her flinging paint all over the place is far more erotic than it should be.
It kind of steals my breath and makes Mr. Happy in my pants quite a bit happier than he was a few seconds ago. Why on earth did I just call my dick Mr. Happy? I have never ever thought of it that way before. But with Ellis around, it kind of seems to have taken a life of its own.
I push open the door and find Ellis hard at work, but what she’s doing in there could hardly be labeled a masterpiece, and I’m quite liberal with my taste in art. She whirls away from the large canvas I set up for her. Anything can be painted over, so it didn’t bother me to let her use one. Her eyes get all big and doe-like when she spots me. Even though she scrubbed her face after her crying session, which still stabs me in the gut, paint splatters have replaced the tears. She has paint in her hair, paint entirely coating her clothing, and paint on the floor, the walls, the easel. The canvas too, but that’s the expected bit.
Ellis bites down hard on her bottom lip, and I have the sudden impulse to abandon everything that’s rational, tug her to me, and get very dirty. I mean paint. Paint kind of dirty. I want to transfer all that color between us. I know it’s utter madness, but so is the confusion and discombobulation I feel by just looking at her. God, she’s beautiful.
That’s it. I’ve lost my senses entirely.
It’s the curse. Day two is apparently much more potent than day one.
“I…uh…it’s harder than I thought,” Ellis stammers.
She gnaws at her bottom lip, and I’d very much like to replace her teeth with my tongue and do that for her. The temptation is so great that I nearly cross the room. I have to latch onto the doorframe and curl my fingers hard into the wood to keep myself from crossing the room. And lines. And boundaries.
