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I am in the presence of the most breathtaking woman I have ever met in my entire life. I simply can’t take my eyes off you.
“Grace?” Oliver asked, his brows furrowing. “Are you all right?”
I jumped. “Yes! Sorry, just nervous, I guess. I don’t know if I’ll be able to stay still for such a long time.”
“Not to worry,” Oliver said with an affable grin. “You’ll have breaks and you’ll be able to move. I promise to be gentle with you. Trust me.” He winked.
My mouth went dry, then my pulse quickened.
I avoided eye contact as I stepped inside the studio.
“Shall we get started?” I chirped too brightly.
What had I gotten myself into? I had a crush I did not want or need. And now I was going to let him intensely stare at me for hours as he painted every inch of my body. Let the torture begin.
Chapter Twelve
PRINCE OLIVER
The moment Grace entered the art studio, I could feel the nervous energy surrounding her like a dark cloud. It was a stark contrast to her fun and flirty demeanor from the night before, but I would do my best to get her to relax. It was just a portrait, after all. Nothing more.
“You look absolutely beautiful in that dress,” I said.
“Thank you,” she replied shyly as she nervously fidgeted with the hem of her dress, then glanced around the room, avoiding eye contact with me.
“There’s no need to be nervous,” I said.
“I can’t help it—I am,” Grace replied.
“Fair enough,” I said. “Let’s see if we can do something about that.”
An idea struck me that would surely cut through this awkward tension. There was no way we could work under these conditions.
“Grace, let’s try something,” I said, motioning her to the center of the room. “This is an icebreaker to get us out of our heads. Humor me and strike an exaggerated pose. The more theatrical, the better.”
“Seriously?” she asked.
“This will relax us both—trust me,” I said. “Give me your most dramatic gesture possible. Channel your inner Broadway diva, if you’d like.”
She grinned, appearing more open to the idea. “I think I can do that.”
Grace cleared her throat and struck a pose worthy of the Bolshoi Ballet, leg kicked in the air, one arm curved gracefully over her head, the other resting on her hip. She batted her eyelashes at me as she wobbled in place, struggling not to burst into giggles or fall over.
“Yes—I think you’ve got something there.” I pretended to scrutinize her posture studiously. “Now, can you hold that position for three to four hours?”
That did it—Grace finally laughed, but then her arms flailed in the air as she teetered sideways.
Stepping to her, I scooped her into my arms.
Now we were both cackling uncontrollably.
“Looks like my trick worked,” I said, still holding her. “You look much more relaxed now.”
She nodded. “I guess I am.”
I was about to release her from my arms when there was a knock, then the studio door opened.
Dante stepped inside and froze, mouth agape. “Oh, dear . . .” His gaze shot upward to the ceiling. “Sorry for the intrusion, Your Highness. I was looking to reschedule your appointment, but it can wait until, well, whenever.” He backed out, colliding with the door frame before making his flustered escape.
