But for now … priorities.
Bentley is back. Of all the art studios in Crystal Peak, I had to walk into Bentley Cormack’s. Well, okay, there’s only one art studio in Crystal Peak, but that doesn’t do dramatic justice to the situation I find myself in. Because …
One, Bentley heard me yammering to myself like a fruit loop.
Two, he clocked the tattoo on my lower back that no one other than Peyton knows about, and if my parents find out, they’ll probably try to perform an exorcism to free me from the demon that made me do it.
Three, he’s the artist I’ve paid in advance to draw me naked.
And four, he copped an eyeful of my boobs, which may have included some nipple action.
Number four shouldn’t thrill me nearly as much as it does.
Bentley is still scribbling away, his brow furrowed in concentration. I lick my lips and finally find my voice. “So, what are you writing?”
He frowns. “Not writing. Drawing.”
“Oh. What are you drawing?”
His gaze lifts to mine. “You.”
I suck in a breath and heat explodes along my nerve endings at the look in his eyes. “Me?” I whisper.
Bentley tucks the pencil behind his ear and moves toward me. My heart ricochets against my ribs. He’s so close that the heat radiating from him threatens to rock me back on my heels. And sweet Mother Mary, he smells divine.
He flips the sketchpad so I can see.
Oh, wow. Yes, it’s me, all right, in light, barely shaded form. The back of my head, the profile of my face, and my shoulder—complete with my banana-shaped birthmark.
He's captured the moment I turned to see him, the flare of my eyes in dawning realization, my lips forming a surprised O-shape that makes me look sultry. Sexy. Until this moment, even though I’m learning to love my body, I’ve never thought of myself as delicate, sensual, or beautiful. But that’s how I look in this hastily drawn sketch. How Ifeel.
“It’s not perfect because you were in motion,” he murmurs, staring at the sketch, “but hopefully, it gives you an idea of what I can do.”
I would never question his ability and skill in drawing. No, it’s more that I doubt my ability to sit before him, naked and wary and wanting. Undressed and under intense scrutiny from his piercing gaze. Where would I hide?
Glancing up at him, I ask, “I-Is this how you see me?”
He doesn’t speak, but his eyes give me my answer. The corner of his mouth curls upward in that familiar lopsided smile that set my heart racing in high school. Oh, my. It’s as potent now as it was then.
“Think about it, Gem.” He opens the door, which is obviously my cue to leave. “I’m around for the next six weeks. I’d love to draw you, but it’s your decision. If you change your mind, let me know. If not, I’ll make sure you’re refunded.”
I open my mouth to decline and snap it shut again. I should say no, but the words won’t come. Before I do something truly stupid, like throw all sense and caution to the wind along with my damp panties, I nod and walk out the door, leaving another shard of my heart with Bentley Cormack.
Chapter 4
Bentley
SeeingGem again has thrown me, unearthing memories I’ve tried to keep buried. The desire to pull her into my arms, kiss her senseless and lose myself in her soft curves was overwhelming. Instead, I held the door open and watched her leave. Have I just made the second biggest mistake of my life?
What the fuck am I doing? Nothing’s changed. I walked away years ago, bruised but not broken, and since then, her parents have despised me. I moved to the city to escape the past but deep down, I’m still the kid from the wrong side of town, neglected by parents who were only concerned with where their next drink or fix was coming from.
I was a scrappy kid, and my parents didn’t give two shits about where I was, what I did, or why I was even around. I knew hunger. I knew pain. And I knew neglect. Maybe that’s why I spent so much time at the Stone family house because even though I knew they didn’t think much of my family or me, they were at least polite to my face and let me stay for dinner most nights.
And while the Stone family had their issues, they showed me some measure of kindness. More than once, they passed down sports equipment and clothing Callum had outgrown, encouraging me to try football because they believed it would keep me out of trouble.
It worked for a while. Until I became a teenager and trouble at school became unavoidable—a tussle here and there when kids were cruel and things at home were bad, detentions for drawing and doodling in class, and failing the more academic courses.
I tried to stick with football, for Callum, for the Stones, but my heart wasn’t in it the same way Cal’s was. Eventually, I dropped it altogether and channeled the brunt of my chaotic emotions into the sketches, the paint, the slashes of color, and the jagged edges of my imagination that spilled out of me and onto the page, onto the canvas, onto the walls.