An Ounce of Hope(56)

Max missed the celebration, being away at one of his meetings, but he'd helped the day after, moving wardrobes, sofas, and fridge freezers. Grace would catch his eyes on her repeatedly. She'd smile and he'd smile back, subtle and cool, but still it made her stomach dance.

When the last of the helpers left, each with a pack of beer, which Grace had bought as thanks, she made her way to the boardinghouse to see Max. She knocked on his room door as best as she could with her hands full. When she heard him call out, she did her best to disregard the fluttering in her belly. And when she heard his footsteps approach, she grinned when he opened the door, but it dropped off her face like a lead weight.

Holy. Shit.

If Grace had found Max attractive with his clothes on, it was a whoooole other story seeing him without. He was bare-chested and barefoot, wearing only a loose pair of black sweats, which sat low on his hips and were splattered with various colors of paint. The V of his torso was defined enough to have every pair of panties in a ten mile radius combusting at a geometric rate. His stomach was flat with grooves of muscle and a smattering of dark hair that trailed down from his broad chest. His shoulders were thick and strong.

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.