Page 30 of Yours Truly

I press my finger to the base of the tower where wild grass shades the bottom of the piece. “Will I be doing this?”

A hint of whiskey hits me as Trace leans over, wrapping his hand around mine before moving it to the tower. Letting go, he leans back and says, “This is what you’ll be shading.”

I swallow thickly around excitement and surprise, both emotions I do not want him to know I feel. “That’s the main part of the piece.”

He doesn’t say anything until I turn my head to face him. He’s studying me already, his dark eyes pinched on my features, his body language relaxed. A gorgeous paradox. “I know.”

My heart thuds loudly in my ribs and I drop my palms to my thighs, wiping away the sudden slickness. “You think I’m ready?”

Trace tips his head to the side, a tiny little smile lifting only the corner of his lips. “You’re ready to do the whole thing. But they paid for Trace Calhoun to do it. So I’ll outline it and you’ll do the shading.”

I’m… shocked. Speechless. Surprised.

Flattered.

And because I’m more like Trace than I’d like to admit, I don’t say all the things I’m feeling. Instead I say, “I guess you losing your touch is advantageous to me, huh?”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I’m swarmed with regret. Loads of it.

I hate his salt and snark, and yet when I’m around him, I can’t help but give it back as good as he gives.

Even though I want to say thank you, I want to say that I feel honored that he trusts me, I want to hug him even.

Instead, I watch his calm expression slip away, and right before my eyes, the wall comes up. “Yeah, well,” he says, getting up from his chair, leaving my side. I miss the heat of his body and his scent immediately, even though missing anything Trace Calhoun feels wrong. “Don’t get too cocky, Firecracker. Everyone makes mistakes.”

Firecracker.

He hasn’t called me that in a while, and I’ve missed it. Between my legs, everything grows warm and fuzzy. I swallow, reaching for an apology. One that he deserves because my comment was jerky and no matter how much of an assjacket clown he is to me, I have to do better.

I have to teach him to move past those salty quips, too. If we’re ever going to progress our relationship, we have to get past this bickering and arguing we’re always doing. He snatches the sketch away from me, and turns on the stencil printer adjacent to us.

Instead of saying I’m sorry, I say, “I’m sure I’ll fuck something up sooner than later.” After snapping on a pair of black gloves, I load the cartridge into the pen. “You’re right, everyone makes mistakes.”

The light on the machine flickers and I watch his large, dexterous hands feed it through, the pulsing in my panties still present and powerful. I practically choke on my tongue, trying not to imagine those beautiful, skilled hands working that monstrous dick of his.

Stay focused, Ivy.

“Yeah, and you’ll make a lot of them. I have no doubt,” he snaps back, yanking the thermal paper from the machine the moment it’s done. He smacks the stencil down on the table. “While we’re waiting for the client, why don’t you draw up a replica of the stencil, to practice your shading?”

I feel like Beetlejuice in the graveyard when Barbara and Adam call him there. I know my head isn’t actually spinning three hundred and sixty degrees, but it feels like it.

I was nice after I was mean. And what did he do? Was he nice back? No. No, he fucking wasn’t.

I smooth my hands down my thighs and turn to tell him he’s an asshole, but he’s already gone, standing up at reception with Deuce and the new girl he hired.

She started today. We went to high school together so I’m well aware of Sandi and what she’s about.

She’s about getting dicked down by anyone who tells her she has pretty eyes, that’s what.

Trace smooths one of his hands over his hair, the veins and ink making my mouth go dry. He’s so fucking handsome. And sexy. And God, it destroys me how talented he is. He drew up this lighthouse in an hour and it’s one of the most breathtaking maritime sketches I’ve ever laid eyes on.

And it was effortless for him.

Sandi can’t appreciate what an incredible artist he is. But something tells me all he wants Sandi to appreciate is his cock.

Jealousy spikes through me in cruel, unrelenting surges, leaving my hands and feet tingling and my mind spinning. Sandi reaches out, dusting her fingers along his forearm as she giggles about something that I’m ninety-nine percent sure isn’t funny at all. In the last few months I’ve gotten to know Trace decently well.

There’s nothing he can say at this hour of the morning when he’s still sweating off the Jack that is dab-at-your-eyes funny. Sandi, quit kissing his ass.

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