Page 113 of Painting Celia

“But also weary?”

“Yes, please. Like you’re considering round two.”

Their eyes met, smiles growing the longer they looked.

Focusing on eye contact was tricky, with him disappearing behind the canvas every few minutes. She froze her expression into a lascivious glare, but let her mind wander, just a little, into types of grants. He painted, but his eyes kept coming back to her face, growing stony.

“Celia.”

“Yes?”

“Emotional honesty.”

“I know!” She concentrated again, and he went back to his broad sketching strokes. So soothing, the familiar sounds of the brush against the glass, bare feet rustling against drop cloth, the scent of paint.

“I saw you in this, that night when you painted me,” he said from behind the canvas. “War paint, I thought. Now you’re a warrior queen on her throne.”

It was a soft throne. She had to remind herself not to relax back into it.

“Remember?” he asked.

“Yes.”

This would be easier once construction was started. She’d have more time then. But she still had two weeks to get through.

“There’s something I’ve wanted to tell you, reina.”

“I know.”

His voice was sharp. “You know?”

She focused her eyes. He was leaning out past the easel, looking at her darkly. Um. She hadn’t really heard him.

“I mean…I’m sorry, León, it happened again. There’s just so much to think about.”

His lips compressed to a thin line. “I’ll just paint your body tonight. Your face is too distant.”

Her eyes widened. “I don’t mean to!”

He shook his head. “It’s fine, I can do it. Just…just sit still. I can do it.” He disappeared again, brush tinkling in the water glass like an angry bell.

“This is why you have to belong to me,” he muttered behind the canvas.

She did hear that but didn’t speak. Saying no didn’t work when he was happy with her. It would just make things worse to speak up now. Instead, she focused on her pose, stomping down the urge to fidget like a guilty child.

•••

“What’s that smell?” León’s shouts could definitely travel.

“Beef stew,” Celia called back, stirring by her stovetop. “Andrew and the rest are coming tonight, remember?”

He surfaced in the hallway, relaxed and loose. The painting must be going well. She glanced at the floor behind him to see if he’d stepped in any and tracked it out. He saw and checked as well, but the floor was clean.

He leaned on the kitchen island and tilted his head side to side, stretching his neck. “We won’t get sitting time tonight, will we?”

“We might, once they’re gone. Do you need it?”

“I always need it,” he said, his eyebrows cocking at her.

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