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“You really need urgent help with that creepy habit of sneaking up on people.”

“You’re talking about weird?” He looks me up and down. “You?”

I give him my best poker face. “And what are you implying now?”

“You eat your damn skincare.”

I blink.

How does he know that?

Unless the creep has been spying on me.

“It is edible,” I say. “Have you no culture at all?”

“I eat food. Not shit meant for skin.”

I point toward his face. “Trust me. I noticed.”

His eyes narrow.

“You should start collagen pills now.” I add.

Lie.

The man looks younger than he has any business looking.

Why do men get to age differently from women?

It’s truly unfair.

And this one either has excellent genetics, an excellent surgeon, or some kind of private arrangement with Father Time or the Devil.

“For a statue, you’re funny.”

I narrow my eyes.

“And for an artist, you’re kind of dull.”

He laughs. He actually laughs.

And the sound is low and rough, warmer than his voice.

That stupid sensation in my stomach intensifies.

Damn it.

I blame boredom or this forced lockdown.

Anything but whatever my body is apparently trying to communicate.

Stephen’s gaze drops to the large pink book in my hands.

“Frankenstein?”

I glance down.

Ah, the book.