Page 65 of Wanted

“Well, I don’t.”

I set my milk down a little too hard, the glass clanking off the laminate. Picking up my sketchbook, I flip to the page I was working on and bury my attention in my drawing.

He stalks around the counter, slow and predatory, as if he thinks I won’t notice him move.

But I do. God, he’s so hard to miss. The way the air shifts as he enters or leaves a room. I’ve been acutely aware of him from the moment he found me and picked me up off the forest floor. I hear every footstep as he walks around the house, each time he pauses for longer than most.

Since kissing him, my attention has increased tenfold.

My breathing speeds up as he approaches. My eyes remain on the paper in front of me, unseeing the gray scratches of pencil splashed across the page. A vague drawing of Ashe peers up at me through my blurred vision.

The floor creaks beneath his measured steps. The heat of him sends goose bumps skittering up my arms, and my chest heaves beneath his tee shirt I continue to wear.

He leans down, his mouth poised at my ear. His soft breath blows over the shell, making me shiver. “I haven’t had sex in two years, and nearly twice that long since the time before.”

The sketchbook slips from my fingertips and hits the floor with a loud, startling crash.

The unexpected sound surprises me. I slip in my seat and accidentally knock my glass over. The remaining milk flows across the counter in a turbulent white river as the glass rolls dangerously toward the edge. Jude leaps into action, I turn to catch the cup before it can shatter, and we collide. My cast smacks him straight across the forehead.

“Shit,” he grunts, one hand covering his head. The other cradles my rogue glass against his stomach a second before it plunged off the counter and shattered.

“I’m sorry!” I wince. My arm twinges. Thankfully, it’s had time to heal since the accident, or that might have hurt a lot more.

A deep laugh slips free from Jude. “And here I thought I had the upper hand.”

“Never assume you’re going to win. I always have a trick up my sleeve.” I retort through my mortification.

Jude sets the glass back on the counter and retrieves my sketchbook from the floor. He studies the page as he rights himself.

“Why aren’t you doing this full time? These are incredible.”

“It’s a hobby.” I accept my drawings back. “The whole starving artist thing isn’t a myth. People shockingly undervalue the amount of time it takes to create art. I’d never be able to support myself through the creation process on the drawings alone.”

“Have you ever sold them?”

“There was a small boutique owner back home who helped me sell some work through her main store and online shop.”

“You need to get your name out there. I’m serious.”

Leaving Lola’s boutique was one of the hardest parts about leaving home. Selling art through her shop was a much-needed form of validation. Hearing Jude support the idea is another.

“It’s always been the dream.”

“There’s an adoption event coming up next weekend. You should make drawings of some of the dogs and attach your contact info on the back. You have social media or something?”

“I have an Instagram account, but I haven’t checked it in ages. I only had access to it at the public library. Jude, I don’t think anyone is going to buy drawings of dogs. I could give them for free with the adoption.”

“Maybe but people talk. And getting a free custom pet portrait with each purchase will help both the animals and you.”

It could work. I can easily draw in my free time, and it isn’t a hardship to hang around these adorable canines.

“I can give it a shot.”

“Good. And when you’re caught up, I’m going to need you to make me one of Ashe.”

The dog crosses from the other room at the sound of her name and bumps her snout into my knee.

“What do you think, girl? You want me to draw you on a canvas?”

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