The air is fresh and clean, and borderline chilly. I shiver in the breeze, and as I do, I glance at the Carriage House.
A light shines in there, through the window, warm and soft.
Dare’s up. It’s the middle of the night, and he’s up.
Without even thinking about it, I get up and walk in that direction. I find myself standing next to his front windows, staring in, oblivious to the fact that I’m only dressed in a nightgown.
He’s sitting at the desk in the living room, staring in apt concentration at a paper in front of him. He bends over it, working diligently, and I’m left to wonder what he’s working so hard at.
The light inside is warm and beckoning, but of course, I can’t knock. It’s three a.m. So I watch from the shadows for a bit longer, and just when I’m ready to turn around and head home, Dare stands up and walks into the kitchen.
Curiosity is killing me, so I dart around the edge of the house to the windows on the other side of his living room. From this angle, I’ll have a good view of his desk. Peering in, I gasp.
When I first saw Dare, I’d been right. He is something artistic. He’s an artist.
And he’s working on an amazingly beautiful drawing of me.
My breath is suspended as I peer closer, and leaning my forehead against the glass, I study the picture.
His skill is amazing. And the way he’s drawing me is exhilarating.
In the picture, I’m walking away from him, and I’m completely naked except for a pair of high heels.
Breathless, I study the drawing… enchanted with the way he imagines me to be. I’m slender and pale, but pale in a beautiful way, an ethereal way. My hair is long and lush, my muscles curvy and perfect. Through his eyes, I’m feminine and delicate and perfect.
I scan the entire drawing as my cheeks grow hot with the sheer thought that he imagines me like this… that he imagines me naked.
And then my heart stutters and pauses in my chest as I see something.
A birthmark on my side.
The size of a quarter, it’s the color of coffee with cream.
Startled, my fingers subconsciously flutter to my side, to feel the place where the very real, very intimate birthmark lingers on my skin.
How did Dare know?
There’s no possible way he could’ve ever seen that birthmark, unless he’s somehow seen me shower or changing clothes.
He must be watching me.
What the hell?
I’m churning this through my mind with such intensity, that I forget to step away from the window, and Dare scares the shit out of me when he appears directly in front of me, his surprised face in front of my own.
I yank backward and so does he, then he narrows his eyes as he stares out into the dark.
At me.
I back away and then take off down the path toward my house, because of a hundred things. Because I’m embarrassed that he caught me spying on him, because I’m nervous and confused about his picture, and because in spite of everything, I’m flattered and excited that he was drawing me at all.
I haven’t gotten twenty yards, though, before Dare is tugging on my elbow.
“Calla, what are you doing out so late?”
His dark brow is furrowed as he stares into my face.
I stop and stare upward, into his dark eyes and without bidding, the image of the beautiful portrait he’d drawn with his own hands pops into my head. It was so lovingly rendered, so perfectly drawn.