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Reaching into my pocket, I pull out one of the chocolate bonbons from the packet I stashed earlier and pop it into my mouth. Sugar courage.
Of course, that’s when a disembodied voice asks who’s there. I sound like I have a speech impediment as I juggle the bonbon with my tongue and give my fictitious name.
The door buzzes, and I push it open, stepping into the main entrance. Another internal door greets me, which simply saysArt Studio. What was I expecting it to say?Welcome, Gemma Stone. Take off your clothes, and I’ll be with you shortly to draw your naked body, bow-chicka-bow-wow?Yeah, doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.
I’m debating hoofing it out of there when the door opens so suddenly I almost inhale my bonbon.
“You here for the naked drawing?” barks a gray-haired man in his sixties. He narrows his watery-blue eyes on me.
My swallow is audible as the bonbon slides painfully down my esophagus. “Um, I prefer to think of it as an artistic—”
“Come in, come in.” He cuts me off, opening the door wider and stepping back.
Oookay, then. Not getting the warm fuzzies from Mr. Personality.Knew I should’ve gone for the vampire blood facial.
No way on God’s green earth am I stripping down for this guy. I’d rather slap myself around the face with a flesh-eating piranha.
We step into a large room, the walls painted white, giving it a clinical feel. Blinds cover the large windows, and various pieces of furniture are pushed against the walls.
“You know what? This wasn’t such a great idea, so I’ll be going—”
“You can change over there.” He ignores me and points to a screen in the corner. “Mr. C will be with you shortly.”
“Mr. C? Oh, so you’re not the artist?” I ask, trying not to look and sound too relieved.
Mr. Personality guffaws loudly, which lowers his nasal hair to his top lip and shows off a splendid array of missing teeth. “No, love.I’m the caretaker of this building. Mr. C got caught on a phone call and asked me to let you in. I’m done for the evening, so I’m off now.”
With that, he’s gone. He moves like a ninja for a man in his sixties, leaving me standing here like a prune.
My phone buzzes, shaking me from my stupor, and I pull it from my purse to see a text from Peyton.
Peyton:Are you there yet?
Me:Just arrived. Leaving soon.
Peyton:What? No! Don’t you dare! You’re there now. You’ve done the hard part.
Me:Um, I think getting naked is the hard part.
Peyton:You don’t have to get naked straight away. Did you bring your robe? And your jewelry?
Me:Yep.
Peyton:Okay, so not naked … yet. Don’t back out now. You’ve got this, Gem. Don’t let anyone steal your magic, especially you.
“She’s right,” I say aloud, stomping into the changing room. I place the bag with my robe and sexy lingerie on the chair and yank off my T-shirt and bra. “This is all about me. I’ve let others define how I see myself all my life, but not anymore. Nope. I want to see myself through the eyes of an artist and—”
“I like the tattoo. Very appropriate, Gemstone,” a deep voice rumbles from behind me.
I squeal and scramble for my shirt to cover my bare breasts. I’d know that voice anywhere, and only one person calls me Gemstone … but it can’t be …
The goosebumps breaking over my flesh, tightening my nipples, and sparking a throb between my thighs, say differently.
I slowly turn to face the man who’s entered the room, and my brain fires in a sequence.
Mr. C is Bentley Cormack.
My brother’s best friend.
