The left corner of his lips quirked upward, but he didn’t speak, didn’t drop his attention from her face.
No one had looked at her like that before either, like she was some precious piece of art worthy of being studied and desired.
“Your stuff can be printed like this, right?” His low voice didn’t break the spell. He gestured with their joined hands at a photo of the pines of a local hunting plantation.
“Yes.” Was that breathy voice hers?
The corner of his mouth lifted higher. “I’ve got that empty spot over the mantelpiece. Might commission you to snap some shots of the blue hole.”
She lifted her nose to a snooty level. “Personal commissions are very pricey.”
He leaned in, mouth close to her ear. “I’m good for it.”
The impact of that velvet-over-gravel voice shimmered all the way to pulse between her thighs. Her gaze jerked to his. Slow, the man said, then talked to her like that. Her brain short-circuited so she couldn’t retrieve a smartass reply, and he knew it, damn him, lazy humor and desire glimmering in his dark eyes.
She spun her attention to the next shot, blind to whatever it portrayed, her entire body burning up, breath short in her throat.
He laughed, smooth chuckle sliding over her skin.
“Colton.”
Another laugh, and he closed his hands on her shoulders, rubbing up and down her arms. She leaned into him, back against his chest, and he pressed a soft kiss to her temple. “Come on, let's check out the rest.”
Casting a glance over her shoulder, she let him steer her to the next piece. They passed another hour, talking about the art, the creative part of her brain already planning shots of the blue hole.
When they stepped outside, a chilly breeze flirted with her hair, and she curved into his side, the steady strength of his arm about her making her feel sheltered, secure. She really liked—
“Mama said Andrea Yates is helping your buddy Barlow with his holiday party.” He flexed his hand on her upper arm. “I thought that was your domain.”
Pain shafted through her chest, stealing her breath, shutting down her ability to think. She stumbled on the cobblestone sidewalk, and his arm tightened.
“Holly?” He stopped, voice rough with concern.
Tears scalded the back of her eyes, and she shook her head, blinking hard. Lord, this had beenperfect, and now Scott was tangled up in this night, ruining it.
Wasn’t that par for the course.
“Hey.” He turned her in his arms, shifting them to one side of the sidewalk. Gentle hands cupped her face, thumbs brushing wetness from underneath her lashes. “What’s wrong? You and Barlow have a fight or something?”
Or something.
“I should tell you.” She swallowed, her throat clogged by a lump of fear. Now she was about to ruin everything, and theyhad been so good, held so much promise. She’d dared to let herself hope. “I mean, I need to be honest with you.”
“Honest with me?” His fingers flexed against her cheeks, a quizzical twist to his brows.
“So, the not-dating.” Twisting her fingers together, she fidgeted, scraping her boot over the sidewalk. “And the hookups.”
He cast a glance around them, at the people hustling between Jonah’s and the gallery, a few giving them curious looks. “Come on. Let’s sit a minute while you talk to me.”
She let him pull her to a bench closer to the Burg, only barely stopping herself from clinging to his hand. He folded onto the bench and tugged her down beside him, an arm stretched behind her.
“Now.” With a gentle finger, he stroked her hair from her cheek. The wind blew cold on the tear stains there. “What’s going on?”
Eyes closed, she fought down a wave of humiliation. Breaking down in front of him like this and having to admit how weak she’d been? How did she even begin? “After high school, Tick and Mackey and Scott went off to UGA, and I stayed here.”
Silence pulsed, broken by the laughter and chatter of people up the block, waiting outside for a table at Jonah’s. Moistening her lips, she lifted her lashes to find him watching her, without condemnation or judgment, simply listening.
“And one weekend, they came home together and everything was different.” An infinitesimal stiffening of his arm told her where his thoughts had gone, and she shook her head. “It wasn’t Tick. It was Scott.”
