It takes considerable effort to prevent the strange tension that’s coiling my muscles from showing on my face. The moment I told her I’m a plastic surgeon, something shifted between us. She’s guarded now, and I don’t like being denied access into her thoughts.
She keeps her gaze on the horizon rather than meeting my eye. “I would never change my appearance to be more pleasing to others.”
I study her lovely profile: the gentle slope of her nose, the sharpness of her cheekbone with that fascinating freckle, and her slightly stubborn chin that offsets the soft definition of her jawline. Her petal-soft lips are understated—I have plenty of patients who might ask for fillers with that mouth to keep up with current trends. But Abigail’s Cupid’s bow is sharply defined and symmetrical. Her lips are perfectly in balance with her large eyes and the delicate taper of her jaw.
“You value authenticity,” I surmise rather than extoling her beauty. I don’t want her to retreat into herself if I compliment her physical attributes when I sense that she’s talking about something much deeper.
Her gaze finally meets mine, as though she’s surprised at my incisive remark. “I don’t like fake people,” she admits.
“I meant what I said before,” I assert. “It’s just a job. I do it because I’m good at it.”
She presses her lips together, dissatisfied with my answer. “You don’t care at all about what you do? You must’ve studied very hard for something you’re not passionate about.”
“Are you passionate about being a barista?” I challenge, my own lips pursing in irritation at her imbalanced assessment.
She blinks. “No. But it’s how I pay my bills. It allows me the time and creative energy I need to paint.”
“And my job affords me the lifestyle I desire,” I counter.
She’s quiet for a beat, and I struggle to maintain eye contact as she stares straight into me. This connection goes both ways, and the power of our intimacy unnerves me.
Something squeezes in the center of my chest, and I can’t draw breath until she offers me absolution. I need her approval more than I need oxygen, and I’m bizarrely cold in the absence of her sunshine smile.
“You value your independence, too,” she finally murmurs. “You said you left your family behind in England and chose a different path for yourself. I understand. And I’m sorry I judged you.”
For a moment, I’m at a loss for words. I’m shocked at her easy apology. And her insight.
“I’m sure you’ll love living in Charleston,” she says before I can formulate a response. “If you want to explore the area, we have beautiful beaches around here. I spent all of my free time by the ocean when I was little. I grew up just an hour and a halfsouth of here, so the South Carolina coast is home for me. Did you go to the beach much in England?”
I’m relieved at the conversational shift after the tense moment, so I’m happy that she’s changing the subject.
“The North Sea is a bit colder than the southern Atlantic,” I reply in traditional British understatement. “I never cared for it when I was a child.”
“I’d love to see it one day.” She sighs the words, and that dreamy expression softens her gaze again. “I’m fascinated by Whitby. Have you ever been?”
I blink at her in surprise. Whitby was a staple day out during my childhood, and just thinking about the dreary place fills my memories with scents of briny sea and newspaper-wrapped fish and chips. “Many times. How do you know about Whitby?”
She cocks a brow at me, as though the answer is obvious. “The ruined abbey was the inspiration forDracula. All of the pictures I’ve seen online are breathtaking.”
I shouldn’t be surprised that she likesDracula. I’m starting to sense a darker theme to the fiction she prefers. I’m quite familiar with the romantic fantasy titles that she keeps in a haphazard stack beside her bed. I memorized all of them when I broke into her place to learn more about her preferences.
I already know that she’s perfect for me, and I’m relishing each new revelation about her forbidden desires.
“What do you like to read?” she asks. “For some reason, I can picture you with some politician’s autobiography in your hand.”
I shake my head and don’t bother to hide the slight twist of distaste that curls my lip. “You’re right, I usually prefer nonfiction. But I’m not interested in other people’s self-indulgent ramblings. I like theoretical physics, particularly astrophysics.”
Her smile takes on a rueful tilt. “Science isn’t my strong suit,” she says, as though it’s an admission of a personal failing. “I’ve always been more into the arts.”
She sees the natural world in a way that I’ve never considered before, and she captures the darkest aspects of human nature in her private, erotic paintings. I’m in awe of her art, but she’s not ready to hear that yet.
“I like understanding how things work,” I explain instead. “Knowledge is power. But I’m starting to appreciate that the arts have their own power too.”
Our gazes are locked, and her cheeks flush my favorite shade of pink. It’s the ideal complement to the stunning aquatic blue shade of her eyes. The soft, rosy hue is enhanced by the cool purple tones of her amethyst curl. She’s completely beguiling and utterly perfect.
It’s all I can do to stop the impulse to touch her cheek and feel the warmth of her blush.
I don’t bother to hold back the wolfish edge to my grin. “I could do with some instruction when it comes to art. Teach me your ways.”
