“No.” There was such certainty to his voice. It stopped her cold. “It’s you.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how you can possibly even consider not going to grad school for this. You’ve got this . . .”
He trailed off. Don’t say talent, don’t say talent. People always said that, and she hated it. It demeaned all the work that went into what she did.
His mouth curled up into a soft, sad smile, and suddenly he wasn’t talking about her future anymore. “It’s how you see things, Kate. In these pictures, the ones you made today . . . It’s like I can see through your eyes.”
And there was an aching note now. She glanced up to meet his eyes.
All the edges of him were on display again. Not as jagged as before, not as tired. But they were there, and it struck her: She had no idea who this man was. What had happened to him to put those shadows in his eyes. How he felt or where he’d come from.
She wanted to, though. Desperately.
His gaze burned. As if he could hear her thoughts, he closed the book. He grazed a single fingertip along her temple beside her eye.
And then he asked her, “How do you see me?”
The strangest part was, it sounded like he actually wanted to know.
She blinked, once, then twice. With trembling hands, but with a surety she didn’t know how to name, she reached for her bag and the supplies that it contained. For the fresh sketchbook she’d picked up on her way back to the hotel.
Because she had wanted this. From the very first time she’d laid eyes on him, she’d been itching for this.
“I don’t know.” She turned it to the blank first page. “But I’d like to find out.”
Rylan glanced between Kate’s face and her hands. What she was offering was clear, and it was what he’d asked for, wasn’t it?
God, but his mood was twisted right now. He wanted to be here, enjoying their last couple of days together, but after Lexie’s call, all he could think about were his shirked obligations. His mother’s face and his father’s betrayals and everything he was missing back home. Everything he’d run away from.
All he could see was his own reflection staring back at him, and it was ugly. He didn’t even want to look into his own damn eyes.
And there was a part of him, an angry, sullen piece of his soul, that wanted Kate to draw him. He wanted to look at himself through her pretty brown eyes and see the same callousness and apathy he’d been accused of so many times this year. To see it all confirmed would be a relief almost—a sign that his decision to sit here wasting his life alone was as good a choice as any.
He set her sketchbook aside before he could crush the pages with his grip.
He wanted her to draw him. And he wanted her to see something in him worth holding on to.
“Okay,” he said finally, mouth dry and palms sweating. He managed a vague half smile. “What should I do?”
“Just get someplace comfortable. Sitting in that chair maybe. Or lying down?”
“Whatever you want.”
She looked away, cheeks flushing.
That was interesting.
He ducked to put himself in her line of sight, quirking one eyebrow up. “What do you want?”
“Well, we—” She fidgeted, fussing with the binding of her sketchpad. It seemed to take her actual physical effort to meet his gaze. “We could do a figure drawing.”
“Which means?”
“Drawing your”—she gestured vaguely at his torso—“figure.”
It struck him all at once. “You want to draw me naked?”
She fake-smacked him with the book. “Well, it sounds dirty when you say it that way.”
“It sounds dirty if you say it any way.”
“It’s not.” A seriousness bled into her tone. She lifted her chin. “You’re—you’re beautiful. All the muscles, and your jaw and your . . . you.”
Some of the ugliness that had been festering in his heart all afternoon melted away.
She shrugged, looking down again. “You are,” she insisted. And she was so brave. He’d never given her enough credit for that. “The first day I met you, part of why I took that cup of coffee was your—your jaw. You were like a statue, and I wanted to get to look at you a little longer.” Twisting at her knuckle, she bit her lip. “And then I got to touch you, too, and see you without your clothes, and you’re just— I’d like to. If you’ll let me.”
Finally, she glanced up again, and his breath caught. Gears turned over in his mind, words rising up to the surface, but for once in his life, he couldn’t seem to get them to spill forth.
Her face fell. “Or not. If it makes you uncomfortable, or . . .”
And what could he do? He reached out before she could turn away from him, putting a hand on her face and holding her steady as he leaned in for a kiss. Her lips were so sweet, made all the more so by the foreign warmth inside of him he couldn’t seem to tamp down. And why should he?
Pulling back from the kiss, he touched his brow to hers. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.” When she scoffed, he insisted, “It is.”
Sure, he’d gotten compliments before. He’d had people—women—tell him he looked good. But this was something else altogether.
So he tried to treat it with the respect it deserved. “I’d be honored.”
It wasn’t a line and it wasn’t a lie. He pressed his lips to hers once more, then backed away.
“You want to do this now?” he asked.
“Sure. I mean, I’ve got all my things.”
They had a couple of hours before they typically wandered off in search of dinner. He couldn’t think of any reasons to delay.
“Okay.” He nodded and stood, setting his fingers to the collar of his shirt.
And it was strange, wasn’t it? The still-racing beating of his heart and the desert of his throat. He’d gotten naked in front of more women than he cared to count. He wasn’t shy about his body. He’d worked hard for it and kept it in the best possible condition. It wasn’t as if he’d ever been shy in front of Kate. Hell, just this morning, he’d been wheedling to try to get his clothes off in front of her. So why was this giving him pause?
Behind him, she was fussing with something or other. He snuck a glance over his shoulder and spied a neat little row of materials arranged across the desk. Turning around again, he took a deep breath.
Tucking his thumb into the placket of his shirt, he slipped each button through its hole, then shrugged the fabric off. He actually took the time to hang it up, and cursed at himself in his head. Stalling. It was ridiculous—why was he stalling? He tore off his undershirt and dropped it to the ground. Took off shoes and socks, and unfastened his belt. Biting the bullet, he shoved his jeans and his boxers down as one and stepped out of them.
He turned to Kate with as much bravado as he could muster. All he had to do was make a dickhead comment about his—well, his dick, and everything would be fine. Normal.
But he met her gaze, and fuck. There was a warmth to it that was more than simple aesthetic appreciation.
Alarm bells sounded off like klaxons in his mind. He slept with tourists, with women passing through. He’d disappointed enough people, and he didn’t have anything to offer a nice girl. It was better to stay unattached. Free.
But in a few short days, this girl had wound herself around him, and there wasn’t any point denying it. He’d sunk his teeth in, too.
When it was over, it was going to bleed.
Right now, though, she was still looking at him like that. Any pervy joke he would have made died in his throat.
“Where do you want me?” he asked.
“Lie down.” She gestured to where she had turned down the bed.
He let her direct him until he was positioned how she wanted him, with a handful of pillows propping him up. One arm extended toward her and the other bent under his head. Legs splayed out across the sheets.