“Do you mind if I have a look at your paintings?” he asked, pointing at a collection of three canvases arranged in her dining room.
“No, of course not,” she said, her torso twisted so she could look at him. Had she offended him with the sexiest man of the year comment? No, it wasn’t that, she realized as she watched him wander away. He just hadn’t considered the topic vaguely worthwhile. His entire focus had shifted to her paintings.
“They’re yours,” she heard him say once he stood before them.
“Yes.”
She approached him a few minutes later in the living room, carrying two steaming cups. He now studied the oil mounted above the fireplace, his focused attention almost tangible. Her gaze ran over him from behind. How could he possibly appear so comfortable—so masculine—while wearing a woman’s bathrobe? His strong-looking calves were dusted with light brown hair. The fabric outlined muscular buttocks. The artist in her wanted to remove the robe and memorize every inch of him with her brush. The woman in her longed to make the study using lips and fingertips.
He turned as she approached and blinked.
“I love your stuff. Reminds me a little of Rousseau—meticulou
s, primitive, yet dreamlike—but your femininity civilizes it,” he reflected, taking the cup she offered him. “What?” he asked, pausing when he noticed her small smile.
“Do you ever do or say anything without total confidence?” she wondered aloud, taking a step back and setting her own tea on the table behind her couch. She walked around the couch and sat down.
“Does that mean I sounded like a pompous ass just now?” he asked, a grin twitching his mouth as he followed her around the couch.
“No, not at all,” she assured him. She stiffened slightly when he sat down on the cushion next to her. She swore he noticed—did he miss anything?—but he said nothing. “I wasn’t being sarcastic. I studied Rousseau extensively while I was at art school in Paris.”
“Did you study undergraduate there?” he asked, taking a sip. His wet hair waved around his temples and on his forehead, a glorious mess.
“Just my junior and senior years.”
“I studied art history for undergrad at UCLA,” he said, surprising her.
“Really? I would have thought acting.”
“Nah, I just fell into that by accident. I needed some cash for Christmas presents for my family senior year, and did a walk-in audition for a commercial.”
“And your fate was sealed,” she murmured, picking up her tea to take a sip. He glanced at her and they shared a smile. “What did you plan to do with your art history degree?”
“I thought I’d travel the world, collecting art for a gallery or museum. Turned out, the part that appealed to me the most was the travel, not the art collection. No offense.”
“None taken.” She set down her cup and settled back on the couch. Did one ever become accustomed to his sexuality? It was like a third person in the room, a guest Joy wasn’t sure if she should ignore or welcome. Her gaze skittered over the opened portion of the robe he wore. The hair on his chest wasn’t a pelt, by any means, but it emphasized his potent masculinity. Hollywood golden boy Everett may be, but he was the polar opposite of an effeminate fop. He seemed about as aware of his looks as he was his own skin.
She noticed his stare on her. Her gaze bounced off him and landed on her coffee table.
“Why did you move to Chicago?” he asked.
She paused before answering. She’d moved to Chicago because she’d been haunted by the idea of seeing all the old places she’d used to visit with her mother following her own bout with cancer. She’d been haunted by the idea of her only family member—her uncle, Seth—being forced to witness another round of chemo or radiation, or another excruciating wait for a doctor to give them results.
Joy’s physician had declared her completely healthy on her last several visits, but the fear of the cancer returning—of inflicting further misery on Seth—had been what had instigated her move across the country. She didn’t want to put Seth through what her father had been through when her mother had been diagnosed with cancer.
She didn’t want Seth to suffer like she had when she’d been a child, watching as the cruel disease stole away a loved one bit by bit until there was nothing left but insubstantial memories.
“I needed a change of pace,” she said quietly. “The Steadman School is one of the finest preparatory schools in the country for art.”
“Davis is considered the same,” he pointed out, referring to the prestigious high school where she’d taught gifted students in Hollywood. He noticed her expression of surprise. “Oh—Seth told me the name of the school where you taught. That was before I . . . we . . .” He cleared his throat. “Met. Like I told you earlier, Seth pretty much clammed up whenever I asked about you after that.”
A strained silence ensued. She couldn’t tell him that after their electrical, impulsive tryst, she’d informed her uncle about her cancer diagnosis. Seth had become as anxious and protective as a mother bear after that. She hadn’t told him specifically about her sexual encounter with Everett, because she hadn’t even known it was Everett at the time. Apparently, Seth had taken it upon himself to deflect Everett’s interest in his niece because he’d been aware that Joy had more crucial things to focus on for the next several months than an affair with America’s heartthrob.
“So . . . why the desire to transfer schools?” he persisted after a moment.
He knew she’d sidestepped the original question, she realized. She sighed. “Sometimes we just need to wipe the slate clean. Start somewhere new.”
He nodded. “Begin a new chapter. I get that. I’m jealous,” he added after a moment.