Page 34 of The Wrong Move

“Hello.”

I look at the camera. “Hi, Mrs. Monroe. It’s Byron Hendricks. Is Giana home?”

The door unlocks, and Mrs. Monroe gives me an uncertain look.

“Hello, Byron. Giana is upstairs in her studio.”

“Is she painting?”

“She is. Can I get you anything, maybe a drink?”

I rub a hand over my forehead. There’s a smear of sweat, and my face is probably glowing from training, despite my shower. “That would be great. Thank you.” I follow her into the kitchen, where she is about to pour an iced tea. “Water is fine, ma’am.”

She hands me an iced water. Out the window, I catch a glimpse of Mr. Monroe pruning a tree.

“May I take it upstairs with me?”

Her eyes soften. “Certainly.”

Taking the stairs two at a time, I knock gently on Giana’s door before peering in. “Hey.”

“Hey.” She stops midstroke and smiles. Her smile could win over the hardest of hearts. “I thought you said tonight?”

“Is it bad timing? I wanted to see you.”

She looks at her canvas, then back at me. “I’ve just started as I had coffee earlier with Paige. But I can stop.”

I stand beside her and study her art. “No, don’t stop. I’m happy to watch. It might clear my head.”

“Your head?”

“I trained like crap. Nothing was going right. I had to get outta there.”

“Youstopped training early?” She feigns shock. “What’s concerning you?”

I shake my head. “It’s just one day.” A comfortable chair with a sloping back catches my eye. Does she sit in the chair to ponder her work? “May I?” I ask, pointing to the chair.

“Be my guest.”

Giana continues to paint with gentle strokes and her wrist action smooth. Each flower looks perfect to me. She retraces her work, adding deeper shades and more color, perfecting something that is already perfect.

We are more alike than she realizes. Our best is not good enough. What one person sees as complete, we continue, feeling the need to refine our skill even more—an unreachable perfection. Giana stands back, studies her art, and adds a few more strokes. She tilts her head, the dent between her eyebrows creasing ever so slightly. Those long lashes flutter. She mixes more color. With my hands behind my head, I lean back and close my eyes, allowing the contentment in watching Giana ease the tightness in my muscles.

“Byron,” she whispers.

I open my eyes and sit straight in the chair, my neck tight. “Jesus, how long was I out?”

I look at her painting, and it’s been replaced with a portrait.Is that me?

“Long enough for me to finish this piece.” She angles the canvas. “Do you like it?”

I push up out of the chair and study the lines of my face. I look… relaxed.

“Is that what I look like when I sleep?”

“It is.” She steps up to me and reaches to kiss me on the cheek. I loop an arm around her waist. “I hope you don’t mind. Some people are offended if they are unaware I’m painting them.”

“When you make me look like I’ve just had sex, I’m not complaining.”

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