Sheltered(57)

“And was it?” he asked, because really he was just as silly as she was. Just as raw, just as unsure, just as unable to grasp simple concepts.

“Better than good,” she said as she ran a hand through his spiky hair. “So good I’m not sure I want to do anything else for the rest of my life.”

Of course, the moment the sentence was out she saw it in a different light altogether. In her head it had seemed simple and more than a little horny, but on the outside…on the outside it had a note of forever. As though she’d proposed marriage, by accident, when really she’d just wanted to reassure him.

He didn’t appear to mind, however. His lips curled into a smile, and then said lips kissed a pattern over her cheek and temple. Shortly followed by those words again—the ones that made her heart beat in a new and startling rhythm.

“I love you, Evie,” he said, while she thought of that one idea over and over again.

Forever.

Instead of what she realized she’d been thinking, all along. That in the morning, she’d have to face the cold, hard reality—she couldn’t stay with Van. She couldn’t live in some romantic fairytale, taking from him what he didn’t actually have. She’d have to find her way alone, and if last night had been anything to go by…alone was a very daunting prospect indeed.





Chapter Ten




She woke up to the sounds of the city, so rich and strange that for a moment she really thought her journey here had been a dream. Reality was back there, with her father, or outside in the land of motels she couldn’t afford and horror stories about shelters she didn’t want to go to. This was just a fantasy she’d concocted, to make it all go down easier.

But then she turned on the bed, restless, and saw Van sat on the broad windowsill. One leg trailing off over the pillow he’d lain on. Notebook in hand. Everything about him so vividly real she couldn’t doubt it.

The weak winter light had turned his skin to milk. The charcoal in his hand had smudged all over his fingers. And most damning of all, he wasn’t wearing any clothes. Just none at all.

There wasn’t a person on earth who’d doubt Van’s presence, while naked. He looked huge, framed by the window, and so very, very intent on whatever he was drawing. Until he saw her looking at him, of course.

His eyes met hers. She didn’t mind admitting that it made her stomach bottom out.

“Keep still,” he said, as she did the exact opposite. She couldn’t possibly obey while he sat there like that, looking like one giant delicious contrast. Black on white, rough on smooth, big and gentle all at the same time.

And he was actually drawing too. He was drawing something even as he half-eyed her, gaze as smoky and gorgeous as ever she’d seen it.

Had she really thought this might not be a dream, after all? That person was mad. This had to be a dream. He looked unreal, and worse than that, he then said, “I can’t get your mouth right.”

He was drawing her. That fact practically guaranteed she was hallucinating this.

“Don’t,” she said, though naturally tried to catch a glimpse of what he was doing anyway. Maybe it didn’t have to be a hallucination—maybe he’d drawn her with massive cheeks and giant, hairy eyebrows.

“Are you sure? Because you’ve just exposed a whole bunch of other stuff for me to capture. I’ve got room for breasts on this page.”

She snatched for the notebook, uncaring of her completely naked state. He’d seen it all the night before, and in her bedroom too. What did it matter now? What did anything matter now?

“Let me see,” she said, but he kept the notebook just out of reach. He waited, until she’d practically clambered all over him.

“Ready for round two, huh?” he asked, which was somehow more awesome than all of the rest of it. The waking up to him, all relaxed like that. The drawing, the lack of fear, the knowledge that this could be real, if she wanted it to be.

“Is jumping on you all I have to do to get a round two?”

He laughed, for that. Nice and easy, just like the rest of this.

“Pretty much.”

“Can I see now?”

“It’s not finished.”

“I’m frightened you’ve made my face really huge.”

More laughter. This time bemused, but just as welcome.

“What? Why?”

She snatched at the book again, but his arms were as long as the river Nile. She could have stood on one of his shoulders and made out Egypt, somewhere in the distance.

“Because my face is huge. Van—come on. This isn’t fair, you’re like six foot seven hundred and twelve.”

“It’s much more like six foot five. You’re measuring skills are terrible.”