That made me whip around.
He stood not a foot behind me, tall and unbending, all strength wrapped in a powerful suit which was clearly custom-designed for him. His eyes skimmed over my flushed cheeks, my messy hair, my paint-stained fingers, and something in his gaze suddenly heated.
“I don’t look like a painting,” I said, voice soft and unsteady.
“If I knew how to paint, Ilana, I would sit in front of a canvas all day drawing every inch of you.”
My breath hitched.
I turned back to the canvas because looking at him felt reckless. It did things to me that I could neither name nor understand.
“You’re… annoying.”
He stepped behind me again, so close I could feel the warmth radiating from his chest through my back.
“And you are terrible at ignoring me,” he murmured.
“I am not ignoring—”
“You haven’t looked at me for more than two seconds since I walked in.”
My throat tightened. He was right.
“That is because I am focusing,” I said, trying to sound clever but failing.
“No. You’re avoiding.”
To prove him wrong, I turned towards him too fast, just enough to smear paint on my cheek. He caught it instantly. And before I could react, he lifted his hand. Slow and deliberate. His thumb brushed against my cheekbone, and I froze, my skin tingling. A low hum started under my ribs, making my knees grow weak.
He casually wiped the paint away, his fingers gentle, too gentle for a man who killed without hesitation. The pad of his thumb dragged lightly across my skin, slow enough that my breath trembled.
“Messy,” he murmured.
“It’s paint,” I whispered.
“Still messy.”
“This is my art studio.”
“Doesn’t change anything.”
His thumb lingered a second too long, and my pulse leaped again. We were no longer talking about paint. We hadn’t been talking about paint from the moment he walked inside. I stepped back before my body did something humiliating like lean into him or sniff his cologne. I was tempted to sniff his scent. I missed it.
“Why are you here?”
“To check in on you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re flushed.”
“It’s warm in here.”
“You’re flustered.”
“I am painting!”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Painting does not make you breathe like that.”
