Page 60 of Painting Celia

“Okay.”

“Can we start now? Please, Celia. If you want to.” He reached across the kitchen island to brush back a strand of hair she’d missed.

Her heart leapt at the intimate touch, bounding in a sudden rush of beats, and her startled eyes leapt to his. Cheeks going red, he pulled his hand back.

He swallowed. “Do you want to?”

Heartbeat loud in her ears, she nodded. She did want to. “Go set up. I’ll be out in a minute.”

His smile lit up his entire face, and he raced for the sliding doors.

Celia exhaled hard. Good lord, León was so confusing! How had she gone from angry to this? His bravado just worked on her. He asked for what he wanted, and she rolled over. Maybe he could teach her how to do that.

She stretched, arms reaching, waist twisting, trying to relieve the tension that had silently built all evening. The stretches warmed her muscles but did little to quiet her still-racing heart. She went to her room and undressed, slipping on her robe.

She was only posing, like this morning. No reason for butterflies. Breathing deeply to calm herself, she went out to the pool.

León had already hauled out his easel and supplies, the blankets and pillows from his bed, and the half-finished painting. He practically skipped as Celia came out to the pool.

“Palette is ready!” he announced.

•••

León had set up on the narrow flagstones between the pool and the retaining wall overlooking the canyon so that both blue pool lights and orange house lights could reach her as she posed.

Celia slipped off her robe and lay back on the blankets as she had this morning, but fully nude.

He forced a straight face, ignoring the warm lightness coursing through him. That was just relief that he hadn’t had to ask her to undress.

Again, he posed her, watching from the vantage of his canvas. Leg slightly bent, back arched, neck back. This time he could judge the light hitting her skin. The image in his head, burned there since first seeing her in the water, was coming back to life. Finally, there she was. Perfect.

He stopped for a moment, struck, staring.

Celia.

Heat sparked under his skin. Every time he looked at her lately, that urge to touch her hit him. He shook his head. He was here to paint. She was here to pose, not to welcome him on those blankets.

Would she, though?

His brow furrowed. When he’d touched her last night, she’d said no. Andrew had been in her bed, twenty feet away.

“León?” she called.

He shook his head again, coming back to the present. The painting. He had to complete it before opening some Pandora’s box.

“One second, I’m getting the pillows.”

As he had this morning, he kneeled to prop her knee with one cushion. His hand skimmed the small of her back as he slid the second pillow under it.

Impulse overpowered caution. He couldn’t help looking over her hipbones, the line of her ribcage, her bare breasts giving in softly to gravity. Her curves made his fingers itch.

He looked away before she opened her eyes to see him staring. It was unprofessional, intrusive. They were friends, but it was still wrong. This entitlement he felt wasn’t real.

Well, it was real—it just wasn’t based in reality.

He moved to place the third pillow under her neck, tempted to let his fingers graze her there accidentally. Touch her cheek, maybe. His eyes dropped to her mouth.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked softly, still crouched down.

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