There was no doubt about it. He was a talented artist. It was just too bad—actually a tragedy—he had to hide what he did and couldn’t take credit for the incredible paintings he was selling. But as with the last time she’d been tempted to say something to encourage him to be more open, she only had to consider her own duplicity with her published segments. Oftentimes, situations were more complicated than they appeared.
Bellamy would be downright frustrated to find out she’d gone through his painting supplies. But if she could rouse his irritation, maybe he would conclude he had nothing to worry about in forming a partnership with her. He’d understand that the two of them were enemies more than anything else. If he could see that, he’d worry less about any attachments forming between them during a fake match.
Aye, she was doing the right thing by coming tonight, and it had been a bonus to pretend for a few moments that she was her heroine sneaking out of the house undetected to meet with her love.
The story had been very fun to write, and the rewriting had been fun so far too. But Zaira had ideas for another storyformulating, and she’d been eager to jot down the thoughts before she lost them.
She peeked through a crack in the shed door. The light in the kitchen window at the back of the pub was still burning. That likely meant Bellamy was tending to the few customers who remained at the late hour. She wasn’t sure if he was planning to paint tonight. But when he finished his duties, he would see the light in the shed and come out to investigate. At least that’s what she was counting on.
In the meantime, she would make herself comfortable and start working on plotting her next great novel. Since there were no chairs in the shed, she sat on one of the crates in the corner and formed a makeshift chair. With the lantern casting a glow over her, she pulled out the notepad she carried with her everywhere and began to jot down ideas.
She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when the rattle of the door drew her attention away from the new story world and back to the present. Bellamy was finally coming.
Her heart hopped several beats—from nerves and not desire. But she forced herself to keep writing, pretending to be engrossed in the words she was penciling on the page.
The door opened slowly, and from the corner of her eye she could see Bellamy scan the interior and then find her.
She kept her head down and continued to write, although she had no idea exactly what was coming out any longer.
He sighed rather laboriously, then stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him. She could hear him latch the lock before silence descended.
Shefastidiously—she rather liked that word—scratched away with her pencil on the paper, also liking the sound thewriting made, as if she were busy and inspired and caught up in the scene rather than writing a bunch of gibberish.
He leaned back and crossed his arms, obviously waiting for her to acknowledge his presence. Should she? Or should she wait for a few more moments?
While nibbling on her bottom lip, she pretended to reread the last sentence she’d written. Did she look deep in thought? She hoped so.
“I know that you know I’m here, Zaira.” His voice contained a note of humor.
How had he figured it out? Inwardly she huffed.
It didn’t matter. She would act as though she’d been too busy to acknowledge his presence. She crossed a randomtand then dotted anibefore laying her pencil down on the journal page and looking up at him. “Good to see you too, Bellamy.”
“I never said it was good to see you.”
If he thought his smirk and cocky attitude would annoy her, he was wrong. She loved his arrogance, and it only made her want to banter with him all the more.
“I know you didn’t say it,” she countered. “But I can tell you’re ecstatic that I’m here.”
He raised an eyebrow. “If you’re thinking I’mecstaticat the moment, then I can see how your writing realistic emotion might be lacking.”
“Perhaps that’s why I like topractice.” She tried to infuse sultriness into her voice. “Maybe that’s why I’m here.”
When Bellamy’s other brow rose, she guessed she’d failed to sound sultry and instead sounded like she was suffering from a stuffy nose.
“I know you didn’t come to practice anything.” Bellamy’s voice turned wry. “Except maybe your acting skills.”
She set aside her journal and pencil, then stood. “I came to watch you paint.” She nodded at the table where she’d laid out his supplies.
He crossed to the table, opened his painting box, and began to place all the items back inside. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, so I am.” Even though outwardly he remained composed, she could feel the tension emanating from him. “But you’ll not be getting a show tonight.”
This time she smirked. “Now who’s practicing the acting skills?”
He paused in picking up a paintbrush before resuming at the same measured pace. “I assume your visit has to do with the other acting job you’d like me to take?”
“It does.”
“The answer is still no.”
