In Flight (Up in the Air #1)(46)

It was a self-portrait, I saw, as he admired it. I cringed slightly. Self-portraits weren’t my favorite. I usually only did them when I lacked for inspiration. I had painted this one a few years ago.

I’d used a picture Stephan had taken when I wasn’t looking. I was wearing my cool, composed face, and it had interested me to paint myself that way, so enigmatic. I tried to behave that way, knew people viewed me as inscrutable, but I rarely felt it. It had pleased me that other people perceived me that way, and so I had painted it.

In the painting I was leaning against a counter, the one from our old apartment. My arms rested on the counter, my head tilted up and slightly away. But my eyes were a clear, pale blue.

We’d been having a party in our small apartment, I recalled. The picture had been Stephan’s way of trying to draw me into the fun. I hadn’t even noticed him until he’d taken several shots of me. I’d used the first picture to make the painting.

“I want this,” James said softly. “Can I buy it from you?”

I gave him a very level stare. “Thats ludicrous. You can have it, if you want it. I never hang self-portraits. I can’t imagine why you would want that, though. Where would you hang a thing like that?”

He just grinned. “Plural. As in, you have more?”

I rolled my eyes. “I do. They’re in here, somewhere. As you can see, I don’t have it organized. I have no idea where any specific painting is.”

James just started rifling through my things with more focus.

I sighed, resigned to indulging his strange mood to dig into every part of my house.

“I’m going to make breakfast. You can have any pictures you want, but please don’t take them if you’re just trying to flatter me.” I left before he could comment.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Mr. Accommodating

I made ham and eggs. I needed to go to the grocery store, so it was the only thing in my fridge. I had to keep a very clean kitchen, buying only things that I could use immediately or things that lasted for weeks before they went bad. It was one of the necessities of my job.

I made a huge portion for James, and a more reasonable plate for myself. I knew from my long experience with Stephan that a man James’s size, no matter how fit, would put away a lot of food. I was pleased to find a small block of extra sharp cheddar to top it with. Simple fare, but good.

I brought the plates and some bottles of cold water into the spare room.

James was digging through the mess with as much concentration as ever.

I saw that he had found four more pictures to add to his collection. The one on top was an oil picture of a lilly. I thought it an odd choice for him, but I just set his plate on the bed above where he crouched, digging.

I tried not to stare at him as I sat down on another cleared spot on the bed to eat, my plate balanced on my lap. He still only wore his boxer-briefs. It was beyond distracting.

“I made ham and eggs,” I finally said, when he just kept digging. “It’s nothing fancy, but it’s getting cold.”

He turned, sitting cross-legged on the floor and grabbing his plate. He grinned at me almost boyishly.

“It’s like Christmas for me in here. It’s not often that I find something I want that I don’t have.”

I can well believe that, I thought. Though what I couldn’t imagine was why he would want my paintings. I still just wanted to think that he was trying to flatter me to get into my pants. Which was obviously unnecessary at this point. That, I supposed, was why it confused me so much.

He cleared his plate in short order. I still wasn’t half done with my own when he took his last bite.

“That was fantastic. Thank you,” he said, then got back to work.

I finished eating, then looked at the pictures he’d selected so far. Three of my self-portraits, and the lilly. As I was studying them, he found my chest of watercolors. He flung it open as though he had every right in the world. For some reason, I didn’t even attempt stop him.

He added two more pictures to his selection almost immediately. More self-portraits, I saw.

I started to get antsy as he searched the chest. I was recalling a rather embarrassing self-portrait that I’d buried at the bottom. To hide it.

“I need to go run errands soon. I have absolutely no food for lunch, sooo…”

“Mmmk,” he mumbled, but just kept digging. He singled out two more of my larger watercolor paintings, setting them on his pile. They were landscapes of the Vegas mountains, much like the ones I had in my living room. I actually liked them better than the ones that had ended up above my mantle, but they’d been too big for the mosaic.

I knew when he found the painting I was worrying about. He pulled out a smaller painting, and stilled, sucking in a sharp breath. He looked at it for so long that I walked to him, checking to see if my suspicions were correct. They were, of course.

It was on a not quite printer-sized piece of watercolor paper. My only fully nude self-portrait. Looking at it, I wasn’t quite as embarrassed as I’d thought I would be. At least it was a better picture than I had remembered.

I had sat on a chair in my bedroom, in front of my full length mirror. I was sitting up very straight, and had even painted the paintbrush in my hand and the easel and board I was working on. My br**sts were fully revealed, though my legs were closed modestly. Modestly for a nude. Just the barest hint of what lay between was revealed. My gaze was steady, though wide. My free hand lay on my thigh, clenched. My bare feet were arched, my toes pink. My hair had hung loose, though it didn’t cover a thing.