I snap to attention and hold the door open so he can walk inside the apartment. As he moves past me, his body brushes against mine. He steps inside the small hallway before moving further into the cramped dining/living room combination. There’s a small, round table stuffed into the space. Brayden removes his backpack from his shoulder before setting it on the wood surface. It lands with a thud.
For a heartbeat, we stare before his fingers grip the hem of his navy T-shirt and yank it up his chest, revealing a tantalizing strip of washboard abdominals in the process.
My eyes widen. “What are you doing?”
“Stripping.” His brows draw together in confusion. “Why? What does it look like?”
A gurgle of nervous laughter bubbles up in my throat as I wave at the living room. “Oh my god, not here!”
As soon as he releases the cotton material, it falls back into place, covering his hard, sun-kissed flesh. “All right. If not here, then where?”
I point toward the open door. “Let’s do this in my bedroom.”
When a slow smirk curves his lips, I roll my eyes. “So I can sketch you properly, perv. Get your mind out of the gutter.”
The knowing smile remains in place. “Please. You’re just trying to get me naked so you can have your wicked way with me.” He taps the side of his head with his finger. “I know exactly what’s going on inside that dirty little mind of yours.”
It’s reluctantly that I snort out a laugh.
Had he accused me of this even a week ago, I would have taken offense to the comment and snapped at him. Now, I understand that Brayden is doing nothing more than goofing around. “In your dreams.” Although, he’s closer to the truth than I’m comfortable admitting, even to myself.
The humor dancing in his eyes dies a quick death as they turn flinty. “Maybe.”
That one word, murmured in a deep voice, is all it takes for desire to ignite within me. Almost mercilessly, I stomp it out before it can settle like a heavy stone in my core.
I need to focus on the sole reason Brayden has turned up at my apartment this afternoon. And that’s so I can do a preliminary sketch. This isn’t a date, and we’re not friends hanging out. Just like he quipped earlier, he’s holding up his end of the deal.
I trail behind him at a safe distance as he saunters into my room. We both fall silent as he studies my personal space. It’s a little surreal to have him here. Who would have ever thought I would willingly invite Brayden into my bedroom?
Certainly not me.
The normally spacious area shrinks around his large form, making it feel surprisingly small and cramped. It’s almost as if there isn’t enough space for the both of us. Instead of staring at him, I rip my gaze away. It skitters around, taking in everything he must see.
There’s a queen-sized bed pressed against the far wall. Next to it is a nightstand with a fuzzy turquoise lamp shade that I’ve had forever. Fairy lights are strung across three of the walls and a fluffy greenish-blue comforter covers the bed. I love the color. It makes me think of the Caribbean Sea and I find that soothing. Especially when I’m working on my art.
A white desk that doubles as a makeup area is situated across from the bed. Framed posters of the Louvre and MoMA decorate the plain white walls along with a few of my own pieces that Mom was especially proud of. Brayden gravitates closer to one of the sketches before carefully studying it.
His silence is enough to have my nerves growing taut. If they stretch any further, they’ll fray and snap. It shouldn’t matter what Brayden thinks of my artwork. We aren’t friends. We’re not...anything, really. Our relationship has morphed into something new, but I’m unsure what label to slap on it.
It’s disconcerting to realize that his opinion actually matters. Maybe it’s because I’m going to draw him, and I want Brayden to be impressed by my skills. I want to assure him that he won’t turn out looking like a stick figure.
When he glances over his shoulder, his dark gaze skewers me in place. “Is this yours?”
I jerk my head into a nod as my mouth grows cottony, making it impossible to swallow.
“It’s really good.” He leans closer as if trying to absorb the details.
“Thanks.” Forcing out that one word takes a Herculean effort on my part.
It’s like Brayden is at a museum as he moves from one framed piece to another before studying it with an equal amount of intensity. My fingers twist as I keep my lips clamped together. Standing by idly while people judge my work has never been comfortable. Even though I tell myself that it doesn’t matter what they think, deep down, it does. Art comes from within and to have someone form unfavorable opinions or criticize a piece that has taken hours to create can be brutal. I’ve spilled a lot of tears because a teacher tore apart a painting or drawing. A few times, I’ve even been tempted to quit. The problem is that the passion you carry around inside you doesn’t just go away. It stays with you, searching for an escape route. Being creative isn’t a choice. It’s a necessity.