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With a shrug, he taps the corner of the painting. “Start with the artist.”
I go to take a closer look. The signature is so subtle I hadn’t noticed it before.
“What does that say?” I ask, squinting at the right-hand corner. “Dyce?”
“Looks like.”
“What are the chances of locating one World War II–era painter named Dyce in the whole of England?”
“Guess you’re about to find out.” He steps back, still studying my new treasure. “Bizarre, isn’t it? To put a portrait out on the front lawn and not say anything about who they are?”
“Part of her charm.” Excitement begins building inside me, thatsame nerdy glee I feel every time I’m about to delve into a period of unknown history. “What could possibly have gotten her blackballed by a family like the Tulleys? Was she a misfit? A rebel? I don’t know. And there’s something about her expression. It’s like she’d just swallowed a smirk, you know? She was up to something.”
I glance at Jack to realize he’s no longer contemplating the painting but transfixed on me.
“What?” I say self-consciously.
“Really turns you on, does it? This history stuff.”
Oh boy. Somebody this good-looking isn’t allowed to say the wordsturned onin my vicinity.
“It’s kind of my passion,” I confess.
He chuckles. “My ego would be massive if chicks were talking about me with that kind of passion.”
For my own sanity, I turn the subject on him. “Aren’t you passionate about something?”
“Rugby” is the instant reply.
I snort.
“—and sex.”
My snort turns into a startled cough.
“Big fan of that,” he adds with a faint smile.
I gulp. Is he flirting?
I busy myself by adjusting my side braid, which is coming undone after a long day out. Then I look up and swallow harder, because when my gaze was averted, he sort of snuck up on me and crept close enough that I can feel the heat from his skin on my cheek.
Like the girl in the painting, he has magnetic eyes too. Gaze-into-them-and-fall-in-his-arms eyes. Trip-over-my-own-two-feet eyes. I wonder what he’s seeing in me, staring so intently.
“How about you, Abbs?” His voice has gone a bit raspy, almost mocking.
“How about me what?”
“What are your thoughts on sex?”
My breath catches.
Is he seriously standing here all nonchalant, asking me for my sex thoughts in clear defiance of house rules one through infinity?
“Um.” I bite my lip and don’t miss the way his gaze focuses on that. “Sex is…fun.”
His mouth curves. “Can’t disagree with that.” Jack tips his head, pensive. “You popped your UK cherry yet?”
Oh my God. Did he really just say that?
