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“Knox.” Voice strained again, Monroe looked up from the shelves he’d been dusting.
“What now?” I hadn’t done a single flirty thing in at least ten minutes.
“Do you have to dance with the broom?” A dusky flush rose on his defined cheekbones.
“I was dancing?” I chuckled, but I wasn’t entirely surprised. “Oops. Hazard of having a wicked bass line in my head.”
“Sure seemed that way from how you were shaking…never mind.” He resumed dusting with quick, aggressive movements before taking a couple of hilariously deep breaths. “You like art, huh?”
“I always have.” I’d let him have the change in subject because he’d hit upon one of my great passions. “Despite the sibling influx in the last five years, I was pretty much an only kid my whole childhood. Lots of time on my own, and art supplies were far cheaper than electronics for keeping me occupied. Art. Legos. Building things. I liked things that kept my hands busy.” I paused to laugh at how Monroe’s gaze dropped to my hands on the broom. “Sorry. Not trying for innuendo there. It’s true though. I get all fidgety, and making things calms me down.”
“Ah. I usually run. Or pound out some reps in the weight room. If it’s late at night, I’ll read something super dry to quiet my brain.”
“Well, next time you’re antsy, try coloring something.” Putting a teeny bit of flirt on the word antsy, I grinned at him. “Or painting. You’ll see if you help with the painting. Something magical about transforming a room.”
“You’re something else.” He shook his head, but his fond tone felt more like a hug than a rebuke.
“Does that mean you’ll let me use more than plain apartment-white paint?” Might as well use the brief moment of affection to press my case.
“Have at it. Whatever you think will sell.”
“Awesome.” I flicked the broom back and forth like I was painting the bare hardwood floor. “So, I’m thinking camo trim…”
“Camo?”
“What? That’s not your favorite color, Lieutenant?” I knew perfectly well he wasn’t the type to go around off-duty in head-to-toe camo and GO NAVY T-shirts, but if I’d asked him point blank for favorite colors, he would have protested. A little subterfuge was way more satisfying.
“Blue. Which I know is so boring and predictable.” A smile teased the corners of his mouth.
“Yup. But I can tell from how your eyes got all dreamy that there’s a story there. Tell.” I leaned forward on the broom, chimney-sweep style.
“Well, my folks usually lived in typical military housing. But when we were stationed in Pensacola the year I started kindergarten, we had a landlord who let Mom paint—my bio mom, who died when I was young, not the stepmom who came later. Mom did my room light blue with baseball accents. The color was close to her eyes, so whenever I see sky blue, it makes me happy.” He smiled softly, then straightened as if irked at himself for being emotional. “Sorry. That’s cheesy.”
“It is not.” I crossed the room to lightly tap the back of his head. “It’s sweet. And I’m sure you get tired of hearing it, but I’m sorry you lost your mom as a kid. I love Jessica a lot, but she’s not my mom, and I get that difference, you know?”
“Yeah. Dad and Carolyn retired to Arizona together. They’re a tight team with Carolyn’s kids from her first marriage, and I’m glad they’re so happy and going on three decades together, but…yeah. Not the same thing.” He exhaled hard as I dropped my hand from his head to his shoulder and rubbed the tense muscle. “Thanks.”
“And you had your Aunt Henri. I’m sure she missed your mom too.”
“She did. And her distant cousin, the one who was an artist and reportedly spent all her time up in this studio. Never quite understood her link to the family tree, but she too passed too soon. Fuck cancer.”
“Word.” Stepping away from him and the dangerous temptation to offer more than a sympathetic touch, I pulled three canvases from behind the shelf Monroe had been cleaning. They’d been stored with the art facing the wall, and when I flipped them over, I couldn’t help my gasp. “And, heck yes, she was an artist.”
“Oh my.” Monroe’s eyes went wider than a paint can as I revealed the artwork. Each was a male nude done in vivid colors, lush textures, and an unabashedly erotic gaze. “Maybe there’s a reason Aunt Henri didn’t display more of her cousin’s art.”
“I love it. We gotta find more. I’ve got a professor at the university who knows people with galleries. But in the meantime, I’m hanging this one up.” I carried my favorite of the three large canvases to the wall above the daybed, which conveniently already had a nail centered on the wall.
“What?” Monroe trailed after me, wringing his hands as if he’d never seen a sweaty naked man before. “Why would you hang it there?”
