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“It sold?”he’d said, taking the device from me.“Is that the chest from the garage?”
“Yup. It sold in less than twenty-four hours.”
“It sold,”he’d said again, this time in a whisper.
“Earth to Leland,” he said, snapping his fingers in front of my face, forcing me to leave my memories behind. “The art-bar,” he prompted.
“Only if you tell me more about your storefront idea,” I said.
“Deal,” he said, pinching my cheek when I frowned up at him. Should’ve known he’d be willing to do anything to get me talking. “I’d love to open a small shop where I would sell custom pieces, where no two would be the same. I don’t want to go into the business of mass production. I want to make items people will cherish for years to come and hand down to their children because they know something like it could never be bought again. I don’t want a factory full of machines and people bringing my ideas to life, watering them down and cheapening the quality. I want to build it all myself,” he said. “I want my work to have integrity.”
“What’s stopping you?” I asked. “Do it.”
“Yeah, I could see the headlines now,” he said, his hands smoothing over my shoulders. “Franklin Kincaid walks away from Nexcom to sell chairs.”
“You could start the company up under a different name. A pseudonym,” I suggested.
“I may not be recognizable by the average person walking along the street, but Franklin Kincaid venturing into a new sector of the business world would not go unnoticed, no matter what name I used. Someone like me doesn’t get to just vanish. The vultures would hunt me down, and the press would make me their next meal. Everyone would know.”
“Would that be so bad?”
He smoothed his knuckles along my cheek, one side of his frown ticking up into a weighted grin. “Maybe not, Leelee Bear.”
The nickname didn’t even upset me anymore. Not when he stared at me like that while saying it. I’d rather use my energy in holding on to the feelings his indulgent gaze stirred in me.Because this will… Oh, fuck it. I couldn’t finish the habitual mantra. Not now, not when all I wanted to do was capture this moment to memory, to charcoal-pencil-and-paper it.
“Where are you going?” Franky asked as I rushed for the stairs. “We still need to discuss the art-bar!”
“That can wait until later. Don’t move a muscle!” I jogged into the guest bedroom—which I’d converted into my art supply room—and grabbed my easel, a pad of sketch paper, a pack of charcoal pencils, and lube before charging back downstairs.
“I thought I told you not to move,” I said, scolding him. He sat upright now, hair mussed, cock lazing over his thigh. “Actually, I like that position better.”
“What in the world are you doing?” he asked, confused but highly amused as I moved the coffee table over and set up my work station.
“I’m going to sketch you. Now stay still.”
“An after-midnight sketch,” he said in bewilderment. “One thing you’re not is predictable, Mr. Bear.”
And there goes that look again, the one that made my heart dance and my brain shake its head at my stupidity. “Just don’t move.”
I refused to turn the lights all the way up and kill the vibe, so I’d mostly need to go on instinct not sight. I didn’t care, I just needed to get him down on paper right this second.
I got lost in my task, and only came up for air when Franky’s complaint reached my ears.
“What are you doing over there?” he asked, shifting restlessly.
“I’m sketching you,” I said faintly, my hand flying over the paper.
“You haven’t looked my way in the last thirty minutes. If you’re sketching me by memory, at least let me move my arm. It’s falling asleep.”
“Don’t be a baby,” I said. “And your hands are resting on your thighs, how can they be numb?”
“Maybe they’re not numb, but they are lonely.” His admission had the quality of a shrug. Like his words were no big deal, merely a statement of fact.
How could he possibly see himself as distant and cold? Oronlydistant and cold, because I definitely understood firsthand that he could be both of those things without apology. But he wasthistoo. He was giving, supportive, humble, and he saw the best in me. Being with Franky was equivalent to floating on air, and I’d become addicted to the high.
Could it be that I brought this out of him? I shut the door on those assumptions. They would lead me nowhere.
“Done,” I said, dropping my pencil on the easel’s ledge and dusting my hands off. I did initially need Franky to sit still to get the job done, but my direction for the sketch had changed without my permission. Seemed my heart had a mind of its own.
