Bringing Home the Bad Boy (Second Chance #1)(62)

Evan cut across the sandy grass to her house, sunglasses over his eyes, hair blowing in the wind, and a very large pad of paper and a black bag she’d bet held an array of artist’s instruments inside. Seeing him perked her up, made her heart flutter. In a very not temporary way.

A flutter of love, the real kind. Not the lusty kind, though it was there, too. The I’ve-known-you-for-years-and-respect-and-adore-you kind of flutter. It was a flutter that, if she allowed it, could transform into a flap with big, sweeping wings. The kind of flutter she’d seen in brides at the weddings she’d shot, or on occasion while in town and walking behind a hand-holding couple on a date.

It was the kind of flutter she had to keep in check. Or else she could lose everything.

He let himself in. He’d been whistling and he segued into a wolf-whistle when he saw her. She rolled her eyes, but playfully. He flattered her constantly.

There went the flutter again.

“Thought you were stuck inside all day,” he said as she stood. “Why the dress?”

She ran a hand down the huge red flower on one side of her short, white dress. The brushstroke-style poppy’s petals blanketed both the front and back of the dress, its black center at her hip, where she rested a hand. “I have to get dressed or I can’t work properly.”

His eyes tracked down to her sandals and up her body again in an appreciative sweep. “That theory needs testing.”

He dropped his pad of paper and bag onto her couch.

“What are you doing?”

“Working with you.”

She studied her tiny office-slash-rec-room. “Wouldn’t you have more space in your studio?”

“Yeah.” He ambled over and clutched her hips. “But my studio doesn’t have you.”

Her next breath came out shallow. “Won’t it be hard to concentrate?”

She didn’t know if she could concentrate with him here. She couldn’t concentrate now. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he leaned down and kissed her, and when the kiss was over she knew for sure. She definitely couldn’t concentrate with him here.

“I have a deadline.”

He shifted his glance left, then right, then back to her. “Me too.”

She gave him a patient smile.

He returned it. “You’ll never know I’m here,” he lied.


*


On the large pad of paper resting on his knees, Evan sketched various poses for Mad Cow and Swine Flew’s adventures. Swine’s character attributes were solid. Now to set Asher’s words to pictures.

Evan took a look at the eight drafts he’d drawn, satisfied at least two of them would become large paintings ultimately used in the book, and became aware of the soft clicking of the mouse across the room.

Charlie sat forward, her posture abysmal—back curved, neck jutted forward like a chicken—and stared, no, squinted, at the screen.

“Need glasses, Ace?”

She jerked as if his voice had surprised her. It may have. They’d been working without a word for a while.

“Sorry?”

He gave her a slight headshake. One day, he swore on everything he loved dearly, Charlotte Harris would stop apologizing for her actions. Instead of engaging her in conversation, he set aside the pad and strolled over to her. She sat straighter, big eyes growing bigger as she tilted her head to look up at him. His girl. So damn gorgeous.

She’d pulled her thick hair into a ponytail. He reached for the band and slid it from her hair. It whispered free. Fingers in her strands, he arranged it over her back and then dug a thumb into the muscles in her shoulder.

She moaned.

He smiled. “Your posture’s a chiropractor’s wet dream, honey.”

Her top lip curled in amusement. “I won’t say anything about how you were hunkered over your drawings for the last hour, Igor.”

“Good,” he teased. Taking her hands, he tugged and she stood. He sat on her chair and pulled her down onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around her sexy white dress with the red flower on it when she was settled.

He moved her hair to one shoulder and settled his chin on her other.

“If you didn’t want my hair in your way, you shouldn’t have taken it down.”

“Like it down,” he told her, peering over her at the photo she was retouching. He turned his face and pressed a kiss behind her ear. “That’s good.”

She hummed in the back of her throat but kept her attention on the screen. “Thanks.”

Another kiss to her neck, his arms gave her a squeeze. “Show me more.”

“Okay.” Breathy, she maintained her position at the mouse, minimized the window, and brought up another, this one displaying multiple images. She scrolled through, commenting on which photos she preferred, on which the family preferred.

He continued moving his hands over the material of her dress, up her ribs, along the sides of her breasts.

Somehow she stayed focused. The Force is strong in this one, he thought with a small grin.

“We agree on this one.” She maximized a portrait of the entire family. Not a single one of them looked at the camera. Several kids ranging in age were scattered at the elders’ feet, some playing in the grass, some crying, and two boys he guessed around Lyon’s age appeared to be mid-fistfight. The parents were in various poses—each reprimanding their own misbehaving children. The oldest couple in the center of the photo Evan would bet were the grandparents leaned close to one another, watching the melee and sharing a secret laugh.