James grunted out a laugh. “Same old Mr. Dee, it seems. Next time you have his class, knot your tie in a Cavendish knot and watch him go ballistic.”
She directed a pointed look at James. “Do you need to encourage him?”
“Hell, yeah.” He took a bite out of a piece of toast, his eyes twinkling.
There. Right there. That’s how she wanted to capture him on canvas. A man the country viewed as one of the most influential and powerful, one with a reputation for being fiercely serious and arrogantly brooding, sitting not at an immaculate office desk, but at a cluttered dining table, relaxed and laughing. There were a few crumbs of toast on his bottom lip, and she would include them in the painting. Those crumbs, the slightest hint of stubble on his jaw, the tumbled mess of his hair, and clothes more suited to a soccer dad than a media mogul.
That’s how she wanted to paint him. The James Dyson the country knew little about.
Her James.
She sucked in a swift breath. My James? Really?
“Don’t go anywhere.” She pushed herself up from the table, her stomach a fluttering mess. So much for getting a grip on things.
Without looking at James or Zach, she hurried to her studio, gathered up what she wanted—sketch pad, graphic pencils, sharpener, and eraser—and then made her way back to the dining table.
The low rumble of James and Zach’s voices sent a flurry of warmth through her. She liked they were getting on. Liked it a lot.
Both looked at her with expectant faces when she plonked back down in her seat. She grinned at them, settling into a comfortable position, open sketchbook on her lap. “Eat up.”
“Ahh, she’s going to start drawing naked people soon.” Zach rolled his eyes, a smile in his voice.
“Not unless James plans to strip.” She arched her eyebrow at him, and then at James. “Given he’s the subject.”
Zach smirked at James across the table. “In that case, I’m outta here.” He plucked another croissant from the plate, shoved the end of it into his mouth, and grabbed his food-stacked plate. “I’m going to go sit in the sun and eat this,” he said around the pastry, “and then head around to Ricco’s, if that’s okay?”
Her father’s warning about never letting Zach walk the streets alone whispered through her head. She frowned, a cool ribbon of unease unfurling through her happiness. “Can Ricco pick you up?”
“Sure.” Zach removed the croissant from his mouth, dropped it onto the pile of food on his plate, and stuck out his hand to James. “Good to see you again, Mr. Dyson.”
James straightened to his feet and shook his hand. “How about we go with James from now on?”
“Sure, James.”
James laughed. “Thanks for the breakfast, Zachary.”
Zach flashed a grin at him. “Let’s go with Zach. And you’re welcome. Thanks for cleaning it up.”
And with that, he left.
James turned back to her. “I like him.”
“Me, too.” She looked at the hanging curtain behind which Zach had disappeared. “This sounds stupid, but I think you’re good for him.”
“I’ve had experience with younger brothers.”
The calm statement sent another ribbon of disquiet through her. Her throat tightened. “I…” She stopped, not sure what to say.
She could never tell James what his brother had tried to do to her. He wouldn’t want to hear it, just as much as she didn’t want to ruin what they had now with the truth.
Expression unreadable, gaze steady, he waited for her to continue.
“James.” Damn, when had her mouth become so dry? “We need to talk about Clinton.”
A muscle bunched in his jaw and his shook his head. “No. We don’t. Not yet. Later. For now, we need to enjoy each other’s company. For now, I need to be the perfect model while you work your art magic.” He smiled. All hint of tension evaporated from his face. “That’s what we need to do. Okay?”
“Okay.” Oh God, could she fall any harder for him?
His lips stretched into a playful grin. “Now, where shall I put my clothes?”
She laughed.
Yes, apparently, she could.
God help her.