Of course, the hot oil had popped from the intense heat of the pan, landing on his bare chest and he’d yowled in pain. She’d laughed but when she saw the look in his eyes, she promised to kiss it better.
Which she then proceeded to do, and nearly caused him to burn the pan up with all that oil cooking inside after he became distracted by her kissing him—all over his body.
She shivered at the memory, shook herself from her reverie and tried to focus on the painting before her. It was turning out better than she thought, and she was working faster than normal too.
Must be her extra good mood, she mused, leaning away from the canvas so she could study it. She clutched the palette in her left hand, the paintbrush in her right, and she nibbled on the wooden tip of it, a habit when she was thinking.
She wanted to concentrate on what to do next with the painting, but her thoughts, of course, turned to Mason. What was he doing right now, at this very moment? She knew he was in the cabin, of course, but what was he doing?
Thinking of her maybe? She knew she thought of him. Always. His handsome face, his fleeting, rare smile, the way he moved, the way he said her name, the way he touched her, gentle yet fierce.
Hmm. Her skin warmed and her belly fluttered. She really should go and find out his exact location.
A knock sounded at the door. “Just a minute,” she called, grabbing a rag so she could wipe her hands before she answered the door. But the knob turned, the door opened and there stood Mason in the doorway. Looking delicious as always, wearing jeans and a navy blue crewneck sweater. Even in her distracted and slightly worried state, she gobbled up his handsomeness with her gaze, enjoying the casual, windblown look of him. A look she still wasn’t used to, considering she’d seen him in nothing but impeccable suits for the last three months.
When she noticed his curious gaze trained just behind her, she gave a little yelp and stood in front of the canvas, angling her body so he couldn’t make out what she hid. Why hadn’t she locked the door?
“What are you doing?” He nodded toward her, though his eyes were busy scanning the room.
A room she never really allowed him in. He’d glanced inside the first day they’d arrived, when he searched the entire house. She’d told him it was her arts and crafts room. Where she liked to make things, make a mess. A private area, she explained, a place where she could find solace and peace and just create.
He’d left it alone because he knew she wished him to. At least he respected her boundaries and besides, there was nothing unusual lurking in this room. Unless he counted turpentine as a dangerous substance, which it actually was.
Her biggest worry? She didn’t want him poking around, like the very thorough agent that he was. Then he’d figure out her secret.
“Nothing.” She smiled, drawing her hands behind her. The canvas was so wide, no way could she completely hide it.
Slowly he walked into the studio, his gaze searching the walls, the low cabinets she kept filled with supplies. His footsteps rang loud against the hardwood floor, echoing throughout the sparsely filled room and the sound made her nervous.
His being in the room made her nervous too. His larger than life presence seemed to eat up all the air in the room and finally, after a thorough sweep, his gaze landed on her, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.
“What exactly do you do all day in here, Blake?”
She shrugged, trying for nonchalant. “I fool around. Make messes.”
“Uh, huh.” Now he stood right next to her, was actually staring at the canvas and she wanted to die of mortification. Wanted to cover it up with her body and reassure him there was nothing to see.
No one, no one had ever seen her work before. It had been for her eyes only and she liked it that way. It was easier. Then she wouldn’t have to hear the criticizing or the disappointment. Hear her father ask why she wasted her time doing this or hear her mother say she wasn’t that talented.
Because they both would say something like that. Her parents had always been brutally honest and sometimes she appreciated it, but most of the time it just hurt.
And the both of them were extremely good at hurting her.
Blake closed her eyes and silently counted to ten, waiting for the negativity that was sure to come from Mason. His tone would be skeptical, his eyes doubtful and she didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to hear it.
“Did you paint this?” He sounded incredulous and she turned away, unable to bear his reaction.
“I did. I painted it,” she admitted, nerves making her ears ring, her stomach cramp. God, she didn’t know what to do, how to explain it. “It’s terrible, I’m sure. Isn’t it? I just like to...I like to paint. It’s a stress reliever for me. Just something I dabble in. Something to keep me busy when I’m bored.”
And speaking of dabbling, well, she was babbling. Sounded like a fool, too.
“It’s not terrible,” he said slowly and she turned her head, staring at him in disbelief as he continued to study her half-finished painting. “It’s the pier down by the bay, isn’t it?”
Blake nodded, surprised he recognized it. Maybe she was on the right track after all. “It is.”
He stared, quiet, and all of that quiet was making her antsy. And queasy. What did he think? Did he hate it, did he like it? Did he believe she was a no-talent hack wasting her time?
“It’s...amazing.” His gaze met hers, the sincerity there unmistakable.