“Don’t turn the—”
He turned the page.
“And this is Sherrie. She’s a lady walrus.” He glanced up at her, thoroughly amused. “Are there lady peanuts in here, Britt?”
“No. J. T., I’d rather you didn’t—”
He turned another page.
“J. T.... I really wasn’t ready to—”
“Let me guess... this angry bull with the big square face is Truck.”
She sighed. “Yeah,” she admitted.
“Britt, these are absolutely brilliant.” He looked up at her, his face ablaze with a warmth and admiration and surprise. “You don’t want me to look at them? But why?”
“I don’t wantanyoneto look at them, but since you’re already into it...”
He forgot to listen to her answer because he was already turning the page. “I don’t know who this little minx is.”
And itwasa little minx: slinky and self-satisfied, a little haughty, a little vulnerable.
“Oh... that’s Kayla Benoit.”
“Ah, the lady with the boutique she named after herself.” J. T. was amused. “The woman you tried to fling at me as a consolation prize. And the woman she fought with in the street is... where is she?”
Britt surrendered and leaned toward him, and paged ahead, right past the horse drawing she didn’t want him to see. “Right here. Casey Carson. You may have noticed her in the Misty Cat picking up her lunch or dinner. I made her a lioness. She’s kind of fierce and open. A little bit innocent, a little bit not.”
He smiled at that description. “I like the bow on top of her head.”
“And her hair isperfect. She always has the best blow-out.”
She exhaled the tension she hadn’t realized she’d been holding when he laughed.
“Britt, these are amazing. I mean,reallygreat. They have so much life and charm. Each drawing practically tells its own story. You ever think about doing a children’s book, an animated series, something like that? You’ve never shown them to anyone?”
“Nope. Well, just my nephew. I guess it’s just I... only recently started drawing again. Feeling a little delicate about sharing it with anyone. I feel a little weird about sharing them withyou. Let alone the world.”
“Well, a cartoon is a long shot. Best things in life are long shots. And you could make enough money from a book to get, oh, a1995Ford Contour.”
She laughed.
And then froze mid-laugh. Because now he was paging backward.
No. No no no.
“J. T., would you like to see my bed—”
It was too late. He froze, staring at the dashing horse, wearing jeans and boots and a black T-shirt.
“Holy sh... this is me,” he stated definitively.
Almost accusingly.
She bit her lip.
He looked up at her. “I’m a...horse?”
