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It’s late evening bythe time Grace and I get up from the sofa where we fell asleep. As I step into the kitchen, drying my hair after a shower, the aroma of something baking fills my nostrils. On cue, my stomach growls loudly.
Grace glances at me and chuckles. “Pipe down. Dinner is almost ready.”
Grinning, I sit at the table and watch her move around the kitchen.Shit. I like this—this picture of domesticity. I still can’t figure out how my attitude toward things like this changed so fast.
My reverie is interrupted when Grace asks, “Did you call Matt? Does he mind dog-sitting for the rest of the night?”
“He agreed to it after getting me to admit what I’ve been doing all day.”
Her eyes twinkle with humor. “What did you tell him?”
I sigh. “That I was modeling for a semi-nude painting.” I glare at her because she’s visibly fighting back her amusement. “He laughed.Uproariously. He’ll tease me about it for months, I’m sure. He wants to see my debut as a model, but I’ll make sure he never lays eyes on that painting.”
Her giggles finally erupt. “He sounds like the most entertaining priest ever. I can’t wait to meet him.”
I smile at that. Matt is dying to meet Grace, too.
“I know you hated it, but thank you for helping me with my project,” she says.
“I didn’t hate it.” Uncomfortable, yes, but for her, I suspect I’d do anything. “Besides, you made it worth my while in the end,” I drawl.
As expected, her cheeks glow red.
“So, since dinner isn’t quite ready, how about you show me your masterpiece?”
The spoon she’s washing clatters back into the sink. “What? No! You can’t see it.”
My eyebrows elevate. “Why not?”
She dries her hands and rounds the counter. “It isn’t that I don’twantto show you. It’s just... I’m a little timid about showing my work.”
“But your entire class is going to see it.”
She nibbles her lower lips. “Okay, I’m embarrassed about showing my work to people I’mcloseto.”
“Why?”
Her shoulders droop. “My parents were very critical of my art—critical as in they thought it was a waste of time. Ilovewhat I do, but my confidence about putting my work on display slipped a little over time. I’m actually really nervous about my professor and classmates seeing my work, too.”
Rubbing my jaw, I study her downcast expression. How does a sweet girl like Grace end up with parents as shitty as mine? “It’s fine. You don’t have to show it to me. No pressure. But it’sme. You don’t have to be shy about sharing anything with me.”
Her gaze meets mine. Then she exhales. “Okay. You can see it. Come on.”
I smile, and as I follow her to the living room, she glances over her shoulder anxiously. It’s cute how worked up she is about showing me a painting, but I keep my amusement hidden and patiently wait for her to work through her case of nerves.
Taking a deep breath, she turns the canvas around. My amusement immediately vanishes. Stepping closer, I study the picture of me relaxed on the sofa with one arm draped over the back. In the painting, my eyes are focused on the artist—Grace—and I can practicallyfeelthe heat of my gaze radiating from the canvas. She’s even captured the hint of my deep-rooted skepticism, which is a little less since she came into my life. How the hell did she pull that off with paint and a brush? I can actuallyseemyself through her eyes.
“Grace, this is... exceptional.”
She exhales long and hard, as if she’s been holding her breath. “Really? You’re not just being kind?”
I glance at her, slack-jawed. “No. You’re really fucking talented.”
She squeals and jumps up and down. “Oh, my God. Thank you. You don’t know how much hearing those words mean to me.”
“Jesus,” I breathe, still staring at the painting. I knew she was an artist, but I didn’t imaginethis. “Do you have more completed work?”
“I did.” Her gaze drops to the floor, and she sighs. “I lost them in the fire.”
