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He arches a brow. “Seems like you’ve handled these more than a few times.”
I grin. “Dad has always insisted that I’m familiar with them since they’re in the house.”
Noah inspects the piece, maneuvering the pistol in his large hands in a way that shows me he knows what he’s doing. “This is nice.”
“It’s Dad’s favorite. First thing he ever bought for himself that he really wanted.”
“What’syourfavorite?” he asks, handing it back to me.
“None. I don’t like them.” I place the Mauser back in the case and lock it.
“Then show me what you like, Emily.”
God, the sound of my name in his voice is like fine wine, decadent and rich and oh so sexy. I want to close my eyes and listen to him say it again.
“Come.” I take his hand, and though he seems surprised, he doesn’t pull away. “What I want to show you is upstairs.”
We go up the narrow staircase, all the way to the third-floor attic that’s been finished. Sort of. While it does have air conditioning, the walls are still made of grayed wooden slats, as are the floors.
Every inch of this space is covered in paint, from tiny specks to big splashes that dried and stained before I could clean them up. The scents of turpentine and paper fill the air. Natural light spills in from a crown glass window, illuminating the dozens of canvases either hanging, on easels, or stacked on the floor.
“This is my studio,” I tell him. “It’s where I spend most of my time when I’m not at the gallery.”
He releases my hand and begins to move around the room. I observe him carefully as he looks at my paintings, wondering what’s going through his mind. What he sees.
I don’t often show people my art, because it leaves me exposed. Vulnerable. It’s like opening a window into my thoughts. My heart and soul. The chaos that comes out in bouts of emotion are splattered everywhere, and I’m not sure how he’ll interpret any of it.
Noah stops in front of the one at the very back and remains there for a long time, staring at it. Deep in thought.
“It’s beautiful,” he finally says. “They all are. I thought you said you used grays for the background. But you paint gray rain.”
I tilt my head. “Is it rain?”
“Isn’t it?”
“It’s whatever you see, remember?”
His gaze lifts to mine. “Right.”
He moves around the room, leaning in once in a while to really study one of the art pieces. “I don’t think they’re raindrops.”
“What are they, then?”
Shaking his head, he turns to me. His lips part as if he’s about to reply, but he stops as something behind me seems to catch his attention. “What are those?”
I look over my shoulder at the table covered in sheets. Before I can answer him, he goes to it and plucks a paper that’s peeking out from a stack. Then he takes another and another.
My heart leaps to my throat as I wait expectantly for what he’s going to say about my sketches.
For a while, he’s silent. His brows pinch together tightly as he stares down at them. In fact, he’s quiet for so long, it unnerves me.
“Those are just doodles.” With a little laugh that sounds fake even to my own ears, I step toward him and try to take them out of his hands.
But he snatches them away too fast. “I’m not done looking.”
“Noah, they’re just... I…” I blink, unsure of what I want to say.
He lays the sketches on the table, spreading them out as he bends over them. “You sketch people’s eyes.”
