His gaze swings from my face to my canvas. I resist the urge to step in front of the unfinished painting. I’m not shy, except about my art. I still get self-conscious when sharing this aspect of myself with others. My work feels so personal that when people view it, it’s like they’re viewing, and judging, a part of my soul.
“Wow,” he says, his gaze keen as he steps closer.
“It’s not finished,” I remind him.
“Poppy, you’re amazing.”
A blush fires my face. I’m ridiculously pleased at his comment, though I’m sure he’s just being polite. “Oil paints aren’t actually my specialty. Watercolors are where my heart is at, but I dabble in everything.”
“Stop being so modest. This is incredible. The details and the colors. Everything.”
I tilt my head, trying to see what he sees. It’s hard to assess my work because I notice my flaws and how my skills always fall short of my vision. But I can already tell the winter scene will turn out well. My inspiration is a photo of Snowflake Harbor’s gazebo fronting a lake. It’s a festive painting, with the gazebo decorated in red bows and everything dusted with snow, but the Christmas features are subtle enough that the painting could hang in someone’s house all year round.
I give a half smile. “My last professor in college said that my work is too pretty for me to be considered true art. For him, pretty is code for boring and unimportant.”
“He’s an ass,” Ronan rumbles. There’s that frown again.
“He is.” I shrug. “But he was right. Neither I nor my work will be part of the art elite,” I say with a smile to show that I’m joking. Sort of. “I like painting pretty things. And I like helping kids and adults discover their own joy in expressing themselves. I was never into the posturing and egos involved in the serious art world.”
Ronan unleashes a slow, devastating smile that heats my insides to a melting point. “I understand. Hollywood has its own share of egos.”
The cool house feels over warm now. I gather back my thick curls and lift them to get some air on my skin. Normally, I tie my hair back to contain it. But I’d taken a shower earlier and let my hair dry naturally, so it’s loose and wild.
Ronan’s gaze follows my gesture, and he swallows before looking back at the painting.
“Do you sell much work?” he asks after a beat.
“No. I thought with teaching I’d have all this time in the summer to paint, but I started doing the art workshops, and between those and volunteering, there always seems to be something else to do.
“And nanny jobs.”
I grin. “And nanny jobs.” Though Ronan and Belle are more than a job.
“Wouldn’t you have more time for painting if you opened your own studio instead of teaching? You mentioned it once.”
I’m flustered by his intense regard. He remembered the offhand comment I made and asks me as if he cares about the answer. The thing about spending time with someone of few words is that when they use them, those words hold weight. He isn’t making idle chitchat. He’s truly interested. That quality is just as heady and attractive as his muscles. And his muscles are damn heady, so that’s saying a lot.
“I’m not sure, honestly. Starting a new business wouldn’t be easy. And I’d have to do a lot of lessons and workshops to help pay for a mortgage or rent on the space. But it would be nice to have flexible hours. I paint best in the morning.” I smile. “And at two a.m.”
“Clearly,” he says.
“I’ve always dreamed of having a small gallery as part of my studio for me and a few other artists to show our work.
His mouth quirks up. “I thought you didn’t like the gallery world.”
“Only snooty galleries. This would be a kinder, gentler one.”
“Ah.” His smile is barely there, but his eyes are warm. “Of course.”
He takes a step closer.
I’m hyperaware of his shirtless state. And my own attire. I hadn’t expected an audience at this late hour, so I put on my sleep clothes after my shower, figuring I would go straight to bed after painting. I’m wearing a long shirt that comes to mid-thigh, white, with cherries covering it. I have no bra on. The shirt has been washed so many times the fabric is soft and sheer. The matching shorts are, well, so short that the shirt hides them completely, leaving the impression that I could be wearing nothing underneath.
“Cherries,” he murmurs, leaning down. His breath moves the curls at the top of my head.
“Hmm?” I’m disoriented. His chest is right there. The bad girl in me wants to reach out and feel if he’s as hard and smooth as he looks.
I may moan.
