Bringing Home the Bad Boy (Second Chance #1)(28)

Charlie heard rustling and, since the door was open in the studio, couldn’t resist poking her head into the private lair. As a photographer, she understood the sacred space where the magic happened. And this space was most certainly, where Evan, the artist, made the magic happen.

He sat, back to her, hunkered over large sheets of drawing paper littering the floor. He’d changed into a worn, gray tee with some sort of black pattern on it, baggy cargo shorts, and sneakers. From the backless stool, he shifted his weight, wheeled over to a drawing, then picked it up and wheeled it over to another pile of drawings and dropped it on top.

She was aware she was intruding but couldn’t look away, or keep from admiring the strong arch of one arm resting on his knee, or the way he scratched his scruffy chin while debating on what to do with any one of the various drawings of cartoon pigs.

Not having noticed her yet, he shifted another paper, this one with not only the pig on it, but also Mad Cow. The pig, it seemed, was the character in progress. Every rendering showed a varying degree of features—from oversized versus dainty snouts, to big, floppy ears versus tiny pointy ones. One boasted a Mohawk. Another had a wooden leg.

She was studying the one with a bandanna over its head when Evan noticed her. “Hey.”

“Hi. Sorry to barge in,” she said, suddenly feeling as if she was barging in. Depending on the level of concentration, she knew interrupting an artist mid-creation was much like interrupting a churchgoer mid-prayer.

“You’re not.” He lifted the drawings off the floor and walked them to the desk against the wall.

Taking that as an invitation, she stepped into the room, liking the light, liking the space, liking that he’d set up a tattoo base camp in one corner. At the desk, she peeked around his wide back. “I like the one with the hair.”

“Yeah?” He picked up the paper and examined it before adding, “I’ll put it in the maybe pile.”

Figuring it’d come up sooner than later, she dredged up her courage to say what was on her mind. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

He was standing over his desk, knuckles resting on the surface. When she spoke, he turned his head to the side, his thick, dark lashes narrowing over his blue, blue eyes. His longish hair was dry, and sticking out at every angle in a style she’d come to think of as his “perfect bedhead.”

“Not sure what you’re apologizing for.”

Her cheeks heated, but she’d committed to this path, so she continued. “You seemed mad in the lake earlier. I guess I’m apologizing for… whatever it is I did to upset you.”

His brow crinkled like it had earlier. “You do that with Russell a lot?”

She felt her head shake side-to-side, not to answer in the negative but because his question was not computing. “Sorry?”

“There you go again.”

She had to bite her lip not to repeat herself. “What do you mean?”

“Noticed you do that a lot. Apologize and don’t know why,” then in a slightly louder, more demanding tone, he tacked on, “Russell teach you that?”

“What does that have to do—”

He pushed off his fists and moved to stand in front of her—way, way too close. “Don’t apologize to me, Ace, unless you know what it is you did wrong.”

With that command, he started for the door.

Angry, she opened her mouth, speaking before she knew what she would say. “Well, maybe you should apologize to me.”

He halted in the doorway, his hands curling into fists. He didn’t turn around right away. She waited, her heart thrashing against her ribs. He hadn’t faced her, which was probably why she was brave enough to say, “All you’ve done is frown at me today. And now you’re being rude. I came over here to help you cook for Gloria”—oops, she hadn’t meant to put peeved emphasis on her name—“and Asher,” she added quickly. “Not get the third degree from you.”

His shoulders raised and lowered with a deep breath and she crossed her arms, feeling half-satisfied she’d stood up for herself, and half-nervous he’d turn around. He did, a second later, and the same scowl resided on his chiseled face. He stalked back to her and it took every bit of her wherewithal to hold her spot on the floor and not back away from him.

Especially when he lowered his face so that his eyes were level with hers.

Eep!

“All I’ve done is frown at you today?” he repeated. “What about when I had my hands on your hips, Ace?” The soft but rough tone of his voice undid her convictions. “When I tore off your skirt?”

Her heart had made it to her throat and when she swallowed, she did so around her hammering pulse.

“Was I frowning then?”

He hadn’t been frowning. He’d been smiling—and eyeing her with a heat that… well, a heat that resembled the heat in his eyes now.

His brows rose. “Was I?”

“Uh—”

“We’re here early!” came a female voice from the direction of the kitchen.

Saved by the bell!

“Gloria and Asher are here,” she pointed out, stepping to the side and attempting to dart around him.

He stopped her by wrapping a hand around her arm. Warm fingers, and a warmer gaze, pulled her in.

“Answer me,” came his soft command.