Page 49 of California Dreaming

With her brilliant care of him and his broken bone, she had returned him to himself. But it was more than that. The way she’d kissed him on the pier had been so damned good. He’d never been happier knowing that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. That was why he’d forced himself to wait for her to make the first move—so that he’d have no doubt that she felt their connection too. It was also a massive deal to him that she’d confided in him her passion for painting.

Tessa flicked on a lamp, then went to get them both ice water. When she came back, he was no longer in his solo lounger, but on the couch.

“Why did you move?”

“So that there would be room for both of us.” He didn’t need to add and so we can kiss more, because some things were so obvious they didn’t need to be spoken out loud.

It all felt so natural, being in his home with her, holding her in his arms, kissing her.

But if he wanted things to go any further, he was going to have go out of his way not only to be truthful with her, but also to apologize if he did something that put him in the wrong. If he didn’t want her to hide anything from him, he had to be the same way.

“I need to say something to you. Something important.”

Tessa stiffened. Inwardly, he cursed himself. He’d put her back on her guard—that same guard he’d worked so hard to take down. He made a mental note to think more carefully about the way he phrased things, not just blurt them out.

Tessa’s eyes were wary, as though she was mentally running through a whole host of awful things he could have done. “What is it?” she asked. “You’re not secretly married to Sonia, are you?”

He grimaced. “No, of course not. I know we already talked about this on the pier, but I’m just really sorry that I didn’t tell you earlier that I knew about your painting. I don’t want you to think I’ll do it again—that I’ll keep things from you in the future. I want you to know—to believe—that I’ll always be honest with you.”

Relief rushed over Tessa’s face. “Thank you for saying that. I was glad when you told me on the pier, but hearing you say that you’ll never keep things from me again… Well, that’s a really big deal to me.”

With every word she spoke, he was glad to see her grow more and more trusting. Clearly, she’d been expecting something much worse. He figured it was because she’d been let down so badly in the past.

As her body relaxed next to his on the couch, he saw he was forgiven for keeping his knowledge of her painting from her—and he hoped it also meant she was giving him her full trust as well.

But he knew it for certain when she said, “Although I told you on the pier that I wasn’t ready to show you my paintings, I’ve just changed my mind.”

Though he was dying to see one, he had to ask, “Are you certain?” Because she hadn’t been so sure out on the pier. In fact, she’d flat out said she wasn’t ready.

She smiled at him then, and he found himself lost in Tessa’s smile.

Her smiles were so seductive. As were her kisses.

And he couldn’t believe how sensual her touch was, the passionate way her hands sought out the hair at the nape of his neck and tugged him against her as they wound their bodies closer.

She nodded. “I’m sure.”

Could it really be true? She was going to let him see her paintings?

She took a deep breath. “This is a huge deal for me. But given what I said on the pier about how I no longer care what you or anyone else thinks about my painting, whatever your reaction is, I’m determined to be like Picasso.”

He grinned at her wonderfully courageous words, but then noticed that her hands were trembling. Despite her amazing resilience, Tessa was still vulnerable, and he had to tread carefully.

He followed Tessa’s lead upstairs to her bedroom. He tried to keep the sexy thoughts out of his mind as her hips swayed up the stairs ahead of him, but it was darned hard. She had no idea how attractive she was—one of the many things that got to him.

They entered the guest room, and she flicked on a lamp. He glanced around for any signs of her private life—her little habits or personal items. But the room was as neat as the cleaning service had left it. The only personal possessions that he could see were a tube of hand cream on the nightstand, on top of a book about twentieth-century female artists.

She went to the wardrobe and opened both sets of doors. There were very few clothes hanging inside and a modest stack of T-shirts and knitwear on the shelves. Most of the generous space had been given over to a backpack, some boxes that must hold art supplies, a black portfolio, a small folding wooden easel, and a folding stool like a backless director’s chair.

She turned and flashed him a nervous look. He gave her an encouraging smile, but that was all. He didn’t want to come across as pushy, even though he was dying to see one of her paintings up close.

She drew out the portfolio and unzipped it with trembling hands. He wanted so badly to wrap his arms around her so that she would know she was safe. But again, he fought the urge. It was important to let her deal with her emotions and fears without his interference. And also for him to stay steady and calm and show her he could be trusted that way.

Being here, in her room, he could see more than ever how Tessa wasn’t like any of his past girlfriends. He was used to starlets who had never heard the expression traveling light. Actresses and models who went from venue to venue with glam teams and stylists and an entourage of “friends.”

Whereas Tessa was the very definition of unfussy and private. It reminded him of the way his own mother was.

And he loved it.

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