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“I don’t mind as long as it’s not him on the inside,” I reply with a shrug.
She gives me a sympathetic pat on the arm. “It looks like you and your mate are all set. He should absorb all of Roberts’s memories but none of his personality, and when you’re in private, he can shift back into a more gorgeous form.”
My breaths become shallow, and every fear about my mate and I being chased by the law evaporates with the steam rolling off the barista machines. But there’s something I need to know.
Glancing around to check that no one has moved closer to our conversation, I lean into her and ask, “What do they look like in the dark?”
“They’re shapeshifters,” she replies with a frown. “Does it matter?”
“I’m curious.”
She reaches into her apron, pulls out her phone, and scrolls through the photos app. “Here we are.”
The first image she shows me is of a near identical copy of my shadow mate when I first saw him in my bedroom, except that she’s adjusted the camera settings to take pictures in the dark. She turns on the brightness and makes the image more detailed.
What I first thought had been a manly outline turns out to be a mass of tentacles shaped to create muscular biceps. Now it makes sense how he could stretch his arms across the room. They were actually tentacles. And the masculine outline was him shifting into something appealing.
“So, my mate is a giant, shapeshifting octopus?” I ask.
“Not anymore.” She flashes me a grin. “He’ll be humanoid from now on, even in the dark.”
“But the tentacles?” I give her a meaningful look.
“He’ll still be able to manipulate them, but they’ll be invisible unless he makes an effort to let you see them.”
I nod because that sounds so familiar. “Thank you.”
Jessika claps me on the shoulder. “Well, that’s all I wanted to ask. I’m glad you both chose Mr. Roberts. At least your mate won’t need to scramble about for a job.”
She walks back to the counter, leaving me standing by the wall for several moments, reeling from all the new information. I now have a gorgeous and wealthy mate who would kill to protect me. Best of all, I’m also a real artist.
I glance around at the tables, where the woman from earlier walks back to her seat with a fresh cup of coffee.
My heart skips, and I feel myself walking toward her on wooden legs.
“E-excuse me?” I croak.
She casts me a dismissive glance before returning to her tablet.
“Mr. Roberts told me you were interested in purchasing more of my art?”
Her attention snaps back to me, and she sweeps her gaze up and down my form. “If you’re talking about the watercolors, Gordon told me he paints them in his attic.”
“That’s me.” I point in the direction of the ceiling. “I’m the one who lives up there. I’m the one who produces the paintings.”
The look she gives me is cold and unimpressed. For the next several seconds, she remains silent. It’s either an attempt to intimidate or to make time to think.
Finally, she says, “Then I congratulate you for being so prolific, and I look forward to selling more of your pieces.”
“Where?” I ask.
Her lips purse.
Irritation grates across my skin like sandpaper. “Where do you sell my paintings?”
“The art gallery I manage,” she says, sounding defensive.
Something’s off about her. Most people would question my claims of being the artist, but she accepted it too quickly for my liking. I have no doubt that she knew Mr. Roberts wasn’t the real painter.
