“Because you’re going to draw me.”
His jeans hit the floor. He’s standing in my—our—cabin in nothing but boxer briefs, and my brain short-circuits.
“You said the doubt is quiet. I want to see what you make when there’s no one in your head telling you what it should look like. Draw. Show me.”
“Tank—”
“Show me what you see.” He’s completely serious, even as he hooks his thumbs in his waistband. “Because I think you see things other people miss. I think that’s your superpower. And I think you’ve spent so long letting other people tell you what your art should be that you’ve forgotten what it actually is.”
He shoves down the briefs.
Naked. He’s fully naked. In the middle of the cabin. While I’m still vibrating from firing my agent.
“Oh, my god.” I laugh—I can't help it. “What are youdoing?”
“Modeling.” He strikes a pose, one arm flexed, chin lifted, like a ridiculous Greek statue. “Is this good? I’ve never done this before. Do I need to smolder?”
“You look insane.”
“Insanely handsome, you mean.” He shifts to another pose, this one even more absurd—hands on hips, chest puffed out. “How about this? Very commanding. Very masculine.”
I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe.
“Stop, stop!” I wave my hands. “You look like a lumberjack calendar reject.”
“Harsh.” But he’s grinning. “Okay, what about—” He turns around, looks over his shoulder, and actuallyflexes his ass. “Tasteful. Artistic. Very Burt Reynolds.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re smiling.” He turns back to face me, and his expression softens. “There she is. There’s my girl.”
The laughter fades to something warmer. He’s standing there, completely naked, completely vulnerable, looking at me like I’m the only thing he sees.
“You’re really going to let me draw you?”
“I’m going to let you do whatever you want with me.” He holds my gaze. “Always.”
Something shifts in the air between us.
I stand. Cross the room. Stop inches from him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.
“What if what I want,” I say slowly, “isn’t to draw you?”
His pupils dilate. “Then I’d say I’m already undressed for the occasion.”
I laugh.God, this man.Then I’m kissing him, and he’s lifting me, and the sketchbook is forgotten because there are better ways to prove I’m talented with my hands.
Later—much later—I’m sprawled across his chest, boneless and satisfied, watching the sunlight shift across the ceiling.
The annulment papers are still in the kitchen drawer. I know exactly where they are. I’ve known for days.
I slide out of bed, ignoring Tank's questioning sound, and pad across the cabin in nothing but satisfaction and afternoon light. The drawer sticks—it always sticks—and then the papers are in my hands.
Petition for Annulment of Marriage.
Sawyer James Granger and Jessica Marie Henry.
Tank appears in the bedroom doorway, still gloriously naked, watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.
