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Is that why he’s always watched me so intently over the years? Was he memorizing me to…draw me?
I glance over at him and see his bottom lip pulled between his teeth, his head cocked slightly toward his lap, and his hand moving over the paper. Long slashes of black on crisp white paper.
Shit. A muse? Me?
How did I manage that?
He has to be mistaken, but then again, he seems laser-focused, his eyes flitting from me to the paper and back again.
And what do I really know about art? Shit all, is what.
Maybe he can teach you something new.
“You ah…do you want to stop and grab a snack?” I ask, shifting in my seat. I don’t know how to be a muse or what to do while someone draws me.
It’s making me nervous. They need a how-to book for this shit or something.
The scratching of the pencil stops, and Quinn eyes me. “We just got on the road.”
“Yeah, well…” I squirm a little. “Just wasn’t sure if you were hungry.”
He lets out a low chuckle, and I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. “You don’t need to be nervous, Grey. You’re perfection.”
“Shit,” I mutter, because what the fuck is that? What the hell does that mean? He can’t say stuff like that to me.
I should turn this truck around and drive him home.
“Quinn, you can’t say stuff like that.”
He shrugs and goes back to sketching, and I squirm in my seat a little more, feeling jittery and…confused.
I’m a muse now, and he thinks I’m perfect. I don’t think I’ve ever been either of those things.
“I need coffee,” I say thirty minutes later when I can’t stand it anymore. I need something in my mouth and in my hands.
Now, that sounds dirty.
There goes my mind—off the rails.
I pull off the highway a few minutes later and park on the street, shutting off the ignition and hopping out of the truck.
I’ll grab some snacks, a shitload to keep me occupied, and something to drink. Hopefully, they have those extra-large cups that are the size of my forearm.
“Hey,” Quinn says, jogging up next to me, his cheeks flushed slightly. “Wait up. I had to grab my wallet.”
“I got it,” I say, and he shakes his head.
“No, you’re not my sugar daddy,” he replies, and I just flush from head to toe.
Oh my god.
“Quinn,” I warn, using my best dad voice, which isn’t much of one, to be honest. I never really had to use it all that much.
“Sorry,” he says with a small laugh. “I couldn’t help myself. You’re much older than me and now you’re offering to buy me shit. You have to admit, it tracks.”
I peek over at him and my lips twitch. “Fuck off.”
He nudges me with his arm and then leaves it there, our skin brushing as we walk. His is much smoother than mine. For just a moment, I wonder if his entire body is like that, before discarding it.
