“Should I ...” I stared at the bed, then pinched my skirts. “Do I undress?”
“Do you want to undress?” He smirked.
A frustrated blush burned at my ears. “No.”
“Then don’t.” He settled in his seat, one leg crossed over the other as the back of his sketchbook stared at me.
I sat on the corner of the bed, brushing down the sheets. “What should I do?”
“It doesn’t matter as long as you’re still,” he answered, an amused spark in his voice. “Look away, it’ll be less awkward.”
I huffed, turning to the side for a profile. It allowed me to get a better look at the view outside. The perfect scenery for a therapeutic watch—still, not entirely as to make it less alive in picture.
The scratching of the paper was calming, but the anticipation was what made it hard to sit still. The temptation to ask,Are you done yet?I wouldn’t. This was a rare opportunity. He had allowed me into his space, his haven. This was another step into his mind, this person, knowing him deeper than the skin. I’d ruined many opportunities with my mouth lately. I would practice keeping it shut for now.
“You’re doing well,” he commented, his voice tickling my ear, as he was out of sight.
“Because I’m speaking less?”
“I was going to say that you are a natural,” he corrected. “I suppose I shouldn’t have expected less from a ballerina.”
My shoulders pulled back, my posture alert. “Really?”
“In the short time you’ve known me, have I ever falsely flattered?”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing a jackal grovel”—I caught him from the corner of my eye—“especially if it is me you get down on your knees to.”
“Haven’t I already?” I couldn’t fully see his face, but I heard the slyness in his tone. I simply smiled and looked back at the harbor.
He stopped scratching at the paper.
“Can I see it?” My posture unfroze.
“You can see it when I sculpt it.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I’ll name it after you; you won’t miss it.”
“Please don’t.” I covered my face.
“Don’t worry, it will be flattering.” He laughed.
“I don’t trust you.” I tossed his deflated pillow at him.
To my surprise, his smile seemed genuine. Enough so that his dimple cratered in his cheek, and I could see that his natural smile was at a slight slant, a little higher to his left. The beauty mark on hischeekbone shifted when he squinted, his face contorting with authentic, unmasked emotion.
I could get used to seeing his face soft like this instead of placid like the stone he carved. It was like the entire world opened up at the slightest, simplest interaction.
I was starved of him, and it was, in part, my fault for creating the distance.
Just one taste could sustain me until he allowed me another.
Chapter Eighteen
The Performer
Drowsiness stung my eyes and made it hard to hold attention. The cup vibrated in my hand, spilling the faintest drop of Assam tea onto the cotton napkin on my lap. Every ripple of the sheer surface sent a wave of lightheadedness through me, making breathing more manual than ever. The voices around me materialized as mumbles, then words, then my name.
