An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)(52)

And, oh my God, was that a tattoo—

“It’s rude to stare.”

Grace’s eyes snapped to Max’s face. Arrogant bastard was smirking, leaning a forearm on the doorjamb, twiddling a paintbrush between his fingers. He even had the audacity to waggle his eyebrows.

“I wasn’t staring,” she lied. She cleared her throat and shook her head in an attempt to clear the foggy lust suddenly smothering her brain. “I wouldn’t. I was simply . . . you know, I was just looking at— Look, I brought pizza.” She lifted the large box in one hand. “Pepperoni, with extra onion. And Dr Pepper.” She lifted the other.

“Well, then you’d better come in,” he said with a laugh, propping the door open for her.

Grace entered, dipping beneath his arm, her cheeks flaming hot under his knowing gaze.

His room was set out exactly as hers had been, except there were a set of heavy-looking dumbbells in the corner and a large canvas set up on a tripod, surrounded by an array of paints and brushes. A large sheet hid the picture, and Grace’s fingers itched to lift it up and peek at his work. Several other canvases, turned from view, leaned against the far wall.

“You’ve been painting?” she asked, placing the pizza and soda on a small side table. “Is that why I haven’t seen you?”

Max rubbed a hand across his stomach, watching her every move. “I’ve done a little. Nothing exciting.” He moved toward her, putting his paintbrush down, and lifted the pizza box lid. “I’m starving.” The bite he took of the slice he picked up was gargantuan.

Grace tried hard not to watch his jaw work and his neck move with his swallow. She tried really hard. She shifted toward the paintings, her finger dancing over the top of them. “Do you ever let anyone see your work?” she asked nonchalantly.

Max shrugged, picking up a second piece of pizza. “Sometimes.” He watched her a moment before rolling his eyes. “You can look if you want. It’s not a national secret or anything.”

Grace beamed at him before she began turning the canvases around. Each one was very different, but every one affirmed what Grace already knew: Max was seriously talented. The colors and shades that he used were bold and aggressive in some, while others were more subtle, careful, calmer. The asymmetric shapes and patterns he used drew the eye over every inch of the painting, whispering in light greens, soft browns, and silent black and screaming with blood red. His voice was blatant in each one, angry in some, smart and sensitive in others. As Grace regarded each one carefully, she noticed how the ire became less and less obvious in each one; the shapes became less harsh, less angular, and more sweeping, curved, and gentle. She smiled.

“They’re amazing, Max,” she told him, standing from her crouched position. “Really. You’re very good.” Her finger traced the subtle pink splashes of the one closest to her, her favorite. “They should be shown off somewhere.”

Max snorted and shook his head. “No one wants them. I couldn’t even give them away.”

“I’d have them,” she retorted quickly. “This one, at least. I love it.” The sweeping caramels and hints of gold reminded Grace of her mother’s eyes.

Max waved a hand, not really paying attention. “Then it’s yours.” He grabbed another slice of pizza. “This is epic. What did I do to deserve all this?”

Grace didn’t comment on the sharp deviation in conversation as she approached him. She knew that he’d probably allowed her to say and do much more than he would ordinarily, and she appreciated that. Max was a private person and, as a fellow artist, Grace understood how personal one’s work was.

“It’s just a small thank-you for all your help with the house,” she replied. “I gave the rest of the guys beer, but I thought you’d appreciate this more.” She ventured to the bathroom to grab some toilet paper to use as makeshift napkins.

“You were right.” Max dropped down onto the side of the bed after swiping a can of Dr Pepper. “I love pizza.”

Grace snorted and joined him with her own slice and a can, hyperaware that he’d still not put on a shirt and they were sitting on his sheet-rumpled bed. Under the delicious aroma of oregano and pepperoni floating around them, the underlying scent of man enveloped her. Her pulse jumped but, weirdly, panic never took hold.

“So how did this morning go?”

Max had had an appointment with his therapist, causing him to miss their run. She didn’t mind, obviously, but his absence did make the day drag a little bit longer, even with all the chaos at the house.

“Good,” Max said after swallowing a bite of pizza. “He’s lowered my meds. Says he’s pleased with my progress.”

“That’s great,” Grace enthused. “I’m proud of you.”

Max looked at her dubiously, wiping his mouth. “You are?”

“Sure.” She shrugged. “It’s great that you’re doing so well.”

“Like you.” He nudged her elbow with his own. “You must be stoked that the house is done.”

“Yeah. Although I’ll miss not having you across the hall.”

He chuckled. “Well, you know who to call if your pipes f*ck up.”

Grace swallowed the last of her pizza as well as the nerves festering in her throat. “You’re more than welcome to come over,” she murmured. She fiddled with her soda can. “Whenever you want. Anytime. I could cook for you.”