ones.”
“Not nearly enough,” he stated.
She shook her head. “I charge what the market will bear. Nobody is rich around here—some are barely holding on. And anyway, I’m not doing art to get rich. I’m doing it because, well, I like knowing my pieces sit in houses where they get looked at by ordinary people. If I charged a lot of money, even if I actually sold one, where would it go but in some mansion, or worse, in a temperature-controlled vault or something, where no one would ever see it?”
“Do you think wealthy people are so soulless?” he asked, turning that intent, intense gaze to her face.
She had made a misstep somewhere. “I don’t know any rich people,” she said, and tried to lighten the atmosphere. “But the ones on TV sure are!” And when he didn’t smile, “Look, my favorite sale ever was one of my smallest ones, for five bucks. I sold it at half price to a teenager who didn’t have any more money. Turned out she bought it for a cousin who was stuck in the hospital for a long stay. She came back to tell me about it, how her cousin would only look at that painting when they gave her treatments, and she gave all the animals names, and made up stories about them. That five buck sale was my best ever .”
“Okay,” he said. “Yes. I get that.”
That intense gaze still rested on her, and she sensed question in it. Suddenly the room had become too small, or he stood too close—though he hadn’t moved. And her hands tingled with the intensity of her desire to reach and pull him closer. “It’ll be dark in an hour,” she said as she put the painting in the drying rack and made sure all her acrylic tubes were capped. “Are you hungry?”
“Are you?” he asked.
“Not really,” she said. “I had a late lunch, but if you want to eat something . . .”
“I ate late, too.” He smiled as he gazed directly at her in a way that made her feel that her entire body was filled with helium and sparklers. The scar down his face caused his lips to curl up a little more on one side. “This is your town. Why don’t you show me around? Pick a good spot, one you recommend.”
She finished tidying her paints away, trying to sort out her contradictory feelings. It was a relief that he wasn’t trying to get her alone—in the con-artist way—except now she wanted to get him alone. Not only because of the waves of heat his proximity raised, but because her instinct was clamoring to keep him out of sight. Keep him safe.
She forced herself to meet his eyes. How had she not noticed those warm, honey-colored flecks? Fire shot straight down to her core, pooling there with scintillating possibility.
“Come on,” she said. “I know something better.”
He followed her to the back door. She made sure the lock was engaged and pulled the door shut behind them. Then she pointed across the parking lot to the little street that bisected Main Street.
“This only goes a little way up, and then there’s a path. The view from up there is really beautiful.” She paused. “Or are you too sore to walk?”
“Shoulder’s stiff, but the rest of me would really appreciate a chance to stretch my legs. Lead on.”
They walked slowly up the narrow road, passing even narrower driveways to houses hidden up on top of the bluff. Kesley let him choose the pace until she realized that he was shortening his steps to match hers.
Then they both turned at the same time.
“Have you—”
“How did—”
They laughed. His laugh quirked his mouth into a devastatingly attractive smile,
there then gone again, a flash of brightness like sunlight on water.
“Go ahead,” she said, after swallowing a couple of times. “You’re the guest.”
He smiled ruefully. “I was going to ask, what got you into art?”
“I was always drawing,” she said, intensely aware of his arm inches from hers as they walked. Her fingers ached to touch, smooth, caress, explore. “I doodled in my workbooks at school, and I even
“Not nearly enough,” he stated.
She shook her head. “I charge what the market will bear. Nobody is rich around here—some are barely holding on. And anyway, I’m not doing art to get rich. I’m doing it because, well, I like knowing my pieces sit in houses where they get looked at by ordinary people. If I charged a lot of money, even if I actually sold one, where would it go but in some mansion, or worse, in a temperature-controlled vault or something, where no one would ever see it?”
“Do you think wealthy people are so soulless?” he asked, turning that intent, intense gaze to her face.
She had made a misstep somewhere. “I don’t know any rich people,” she said, and tried to lighten the atmosphere. “But the ones on TV sure are!” And when he didn’t smile, “Look, my favorite sale ever was one of my smallest ones, for five bucks. I sold it at half price to a teenager who didn’t have any more money. Turned out she bought it for a cousin who was stuck in the hospital for a long stay. She came back to tell me about it, how her cousin would only look at that painting when they gave her treatments, and she gave all the animals names, and made up stories about them. That five buck sale was my best ever .”
“Okay,” he said. “Yes. I get that.”
That intense gaze still rested on her, and she sensed question in it. Suddenly the room had become too small, or he stood too close—though he hadn’t moved. And her hands tingled with the intensity of her desire to reach and pull him closer. “It’ll be dark in an hour,” she said as she put the painting in the drying rack and made sure all her acrylic tubes were capped. “Are you hungry?”
“Are you?” he asked.
“Not really,” she said. “I had a late lunch, but if you want to eat something . . .”
“I ate late, too.” He smiled as he gazed directly at her in a way that made her feel that her entire body was filled with helium and sparklers. The scar down his face caused his lips to curl up a little more on one side. “This is your town. Why don’t you show me around? Pick a good spot, one you recommend.”
She finished tidying her paints away, trying to sort out her contradictory feelings. It was a relief that he wasn’t trying to get her alone—in the con-artist way—except now she wanted to get him alone. Not only because of the waves of heat his proximity raised, but because her instinct was clamoring to keep him out of sight. Keep him safe.
She forced herself to meet his eyes. How had she not noticed those warm, honey-colored flecks? Fire shot straight down to her core, pooling there with scintillating possibility.
“Come on,” she said. “I know something better.”
He followed her to the back door. She made sure the lock was engaged and pulled the door shut behind them. Then she pointed across the parking lot to the little street that bisected Main Street.
“This only goes a little way up, and then there’s a path. The view from up there is really beautiful.” She paused. “Or are you too sore to walk?”
“Shoulder’s stiff, but the rest of me would really appreciate a chance to stretch my legs. Lead on.”
They walked slowly up the narrow road, passing even narrower driveways to houses hidden up on top of the bluff. Kesley let him choose the pace until she realized that he was shortening his steps to match hers.
Then they both turned at the same time.
“Have you—”
“How did—”
They laughed. His laugh quirked his mouth into a devastatingly attractive smile,
there then gone again, a flash of brightness like sunlight on water.
“Go ahead,” she said, after swallowing a couple of times. “You’re the guest.”
He smiled ruefully. “I was going to ask, what got you into art?”
“I was always drawing,” she said, intensely aware of his arm inches from hers as they walked. Her fingers ached to touch, smooth, caress, explore. “I doodled in my workbooks at school, and I even
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