“Not even close. He had ginger hair and unfortunate teeth.”
“An extra toe and he’d be Clyde Hammond.” Wes’s lips twitched in suppressed humor. “Did his naughty bits turn you on?”
“Male genitalia are quite clumsy, artistically speaking.”
“Only if it’s flaccid, Amsterdam.”
The endearment, tossed so casually on the back of the word flaccid delighted her more than it should have.
“The last thing Close Call needs on Main is a bronze with a boner.”
His once-severe countenance disintegrated on a robust chuckle. “I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what this town needs.”
“Control yourself.”
“I make no guarantees. Especially if you take those magic hands of yours to my inseam.”
Livie clicked off most of the bulbs in the final light cluster. The change tossed the barn into severe shadows, all but the multi-colored Christmas lights Mona had strung along Livie’s tool cable to “keep her in the mood.” Mona’s words. Livie doubted this was what Mona meant.
Near-darkness plunged them back into a more determined state. The barn settled around them.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked.
“Stand tall. Raise your arms over your head. Right leg back.”
He took orders well. She centered herself in front of him on the makeshift platform Willie had built her, laid her hands on his shoulders, and closed her eyes.
Livie traced the gather of the fabric—always the hardest part of sculpture to get correct. Early on in her career, she took color and black and white photos, but her method had evolved to something more organic and kinesthetic. With time, she had learned to trust herself.
“Look down.”
He did.
She blind-measured the space between his substantial arms and his defined, prickly chin then skimmed her fingers along the most intimate spaces of his face—the cleft above his solid lips, the way his cover made his profile a thousand times stronger, the warm eyelids he slid closed at her touch.
“Am I like Atlas holding up the world? Because my face would be more…”
Muscles in his face strained as if he had bench pressed enough to put his bowels in jeopardy. As quickly as his face transformed, it relaxed. She touched his smile.
“Not telling.”
For too long, she sculpted his features, until she was worried he would know that she had not been honest. For the first time since that promise in the truck, she had lied. The inspiration was him. She had convinced herself he would be okay with it, in time. Forgiveness? Well, that was something he had a harder time with.
She spent time with the iconic eight-point cap then circled him to run her hands along his back, again to study the bunch and lift of fabric. When she reached his ass, he squirmed.
Ticklish. Livie filed that away for future benefit.
After a few more minutes acquainting herself with how the musculature of his legs packed the fabric surrounding them, Wes made a request.
“All the blood is rushing to one place.”
She backtracked in her mind. How long had it been? “Oh, God. I got carried away. Your brain must be throbbing.”
“That’s not the head that’s throbbing.”
Again with the honesty. At his admission, her breasts ached, and she became acutely aware that the ends of her hair infiltrated her tiny shirt and bra and grazed her hardened nipples.
She nudged his arms down. They encircled her, pulled her close.