“What would I do without you?” I mean it. She’s the only reason this place still runs.
“Have less fun.” She grins. “Come on, let’s get this done, so we can sit down.”
I reach for the top frame, but stop when I hear the door jangle. I can’t see who it is, but I know Theo is sitting at his little station, so I’m safe.
And then I feel him.
It’s always the same when I’m in his orbit. The air feels thicker, denser, and my heart picks up its beat before I see him, like my body knows before my eyes.
I turn as he walks toward me, gaze locked, that half smile he does that sends my knees wobbly. He looks sinful. His button-down shirt is open at the neck, the sleeves rolled up his thick forearms, his pants sitting just right on his waist, the belt shiny and expensive.
Juno nudges me. “Your mouth is hanging open.”
I quickly shut it. Then I cross the space between us, my arms instinctively wrapping around his waist the moment I’m close enough. His nose goes into my hair, like it always does, and he just breathes me in.
And just like that I feel better. Whole.
“What are you doing here?” I don’t mean it to come out as sharp as it does, but he’s supposed to be at work. He had meetings this morning.
“I came to help my amazing wife prepare for her exhibition tonight.”
I pull back and blink up at him. “You… You came to help me set up?”
He brushes my hair back from my face, his touch so gentle compared to the way he took me this morning. “I don’t want you lifting those heavy paintings.”
My heart feels full. “We were planning on roping in Theo.”
The grunt he makes in the back of his throat has my lips kicking up at the corners. “He is very good at lifting heavy things.” He kisses my temple, then my forehead before he claims my mouth like we’re alone, like Juno isn’t standing ten feet away from us. When we break apart, I lift my chin to look at him. “You don’t have to do this. We’ll manage.”
“I know, but I want to.” He kisses me one last time and then eyes the paintings. “Put me to work, beautiful.”
And I do. He and Theo do everything we ask, even moving one painting three times because I didn’t like the lighting. It takes hours to get everything set up, but he doesn’t let me lift a single thing.
Juno neither.
The last display we set up is mine. Jensen tilts his head at the placard he just attached to the wall. “A Study in Contrast: The Heart and Hope of Loving Hands.”
My stomach flips and the floor feels a little unsteady beneath my feet. Does he get it? Does he hate it?
There are five portraits. All in charcoal, the mix of gentle shadows and hardlines. Every single one is detailed and sensual in a way hands shouldn’t be.
He shifts to the first piece. The fingers are the focus of this piece. Fingers that can hold me so tenderly and leave bruises on my thighs. That curl around my neck so he can love me. That cradle my face when I cry.
His hands.
I’ve been sketching them for weeks. So many variations that it made sense for it to be the theme of my series.
I hold my breath, tendrils of anxiety rippling through me. I want him to like it.
Jensen steps to the next one, studying it with the same intensity. I don’t know when it happened, but Juno and Theo have drifted away, leaving us in this pocket of quiet.
The silence settles like a weight on my shoulders.
Jensen cuts a glance over his shoulder at me. “They’re my hands?”
I nod. My mouth is suddenly dry. “Is it weird?”
Jensen walks over to me. Prowls really. He’s so much taller than I am, and he has this way of filling every space he’s in. He makes me feel consumed, like nothing can touch me when he’s with me. “I love them all. You really are talented. And they deserve to be displayed, not just to fill the space, beautiful.”
