“There,” he says with a wink as he pulls his lips away. “Now we’re even.”
I blink at him a few times. He said we’re even, but was that an act of revenge? Or benevolence? Because I can’t say I hated it.
“If you’ve got a food kink to explore,” Araminta says, making me jump in place, “I can leave.”
“Stay,” I bite out and rush back to the kitchen as fast as my legs can carry me. I set down my plate and slap my cheeks, willing the heat in them to cool. Once I think I’ve gathered my composure, I return to my easel, pouring all my attention into my palette. My traitorous fingers still tingle with warmth from where Monty’s mouth?—
No. Art. My mind is only meant for art.
“I’m curious,” Monty says, and I’m relieved to find his attention is on Araminta. “Why did David end things with you? He seemed infatuated at the carnival.”
“He broke things off because I got a job.” Her eyes light up as if she’s been waiting for an opportunity to talk about it. “Can you believe it? He said I didn’t care about him if I was going to leave in the middle of a date for a random job offer.”
“When was this?” Monty asks.
“At the end of the carnival. First, I blame a certain traitorous friend of mine for abandoning me when our whole plan was created to provide me a little freedom from David’s full attention.”
I refuse to meet her condemning gaze and instead compare the peach-tan shade on my palette to Monty’s skin tone. I add a little more yellow ochre.
“After the two of you left and the rain let up,” Araminta says, “I was approached by a talent scout who offered me a paid job. It had to be done that afternoon, and I had to leave with him at once. So of course I accepted! Otherwise, I would have had to hear more about how smitten Conrad was with Daphne or David’s anecdotes about his school days. The All of All have mercy on my soul if I ever have to be subjected to that again.”
“What kind of job did you get?” I ask, now mixing hues for the highlights and shadows. I’m relieved that my voice comes out even. Not a hint of lingering agitation from the bacon incident.
“Didn’t I tell you?”
“Between your mysterious absence from Fletcher-Wilson all week and bouts of sobbing on my settee? No.”
She flips her lilac braid over her shoulder and bats her lashes. “I’m a model.”
I stare at her with disbelieving eyes. “You, a model? For what?”
She rises from my settee and moves to the narrow table in my entryway, where she rifles through the broadsheets upon it. “Aha!” With a skip in her step, she bounds over to me, pointing to a spread of advertisements in one of this week’s earlier issues. “There I am.”
I pause mixing my colors and squint at what she’s pointing to. It’s a black-and-white photograph of Araminta outfitted in a chemise and corset, bent over in a pose that is one part provocative, one part coy. She has her palm to her mouth, a look of playful surprise on her face as she glances back at her own rear. It looks more like something one would find in a pin-up magazine, not theCedar Hills Gazette. I frown, studying the photograph closer. What kind of disreputable company can afford advanced Star Court technology like photography, yet needed Araminta as their last-minute model in such a pose? Then I notice the image of a vial that partially overlaps the photograph and the typography that goes along with it.
I give Araminta a withering look. “Harvey Blandwell’s Hemorrhoid Potion?”
Monty snorts a laugh.
Araminta’s pride isn’t at all dimmed by our reactions. “The model they’d originally scheduled canceled once she learned which product she was supposed to model for, but I don’t have such qualms. I’ll take money no matter what.”
“Do you even know what a hemorrhoid is?” I ask.
“Nope.” She skips over to the settee and settles onto the cushions with her paper. “Oh, obituaries! I love shopping.”
I exchange an amused look with Monty and return to mixing my paint.
I’m awarded a long stretch of peace and quiet, and ample progress on my painting. I lose myself to the flow of my art, my eyes darting between Monty and my canvas, the muscles of his arms and chest that I contour with the values of my paint. I pay extra attention to his fingers, the shadows between each digit, the highlights on each joint, the dimples they make in the heroine’s hips. His expression requires a little more imagination, for I can’t ask him to replicate that lustful expression while Araminta’s here. Not when it took me standing shirtless before him just to spark it for a moment.
A wave of heat barrels through me at the memory. I can’t even imagine what kind of impact seeing that expression would have on me now that I’m aware of my attraction to Monty. Or…maybe Icanimagine it and rathershouldn’t. Despite my best efforts, the memory surges through me as I paint the creases next to Monty’s eyes, recalling the intensity of his stare when his hand fell on mine, just before I was about to bare myself to him. Then there was last weekend when his lashes fluttered at the feel of my fingers raking through his damp hair.
Another wave of heat sparks right between my legs, and I release a soft breath that almost sounds like a moan.
My eyes fly to Monty’s profile. For the love of the All of All, did he hear that? His expression shifts the slightest bit, and his eyes slide to mine. The corner of his mouth quirks. Not in a teasing way, but in a friendly smile. My muscles relax, and I return the grin. No, he hasn’t a clue about my naughty thoughts?—
A wailing sob shatters the moment. Araminta’s quavering voice follows. “Do you think David would have stayed with me if I’d put a finger in his butt?”
I whirl to my friend. “I beg your pardon?”
