Page 34 of Mitch

Pen nodded with a sigh.

“Right, I mean, it’s just pictures.”

“Right, just... photos,” I said as I plugged my USB drive in, bringing up the set of four images I’d worked on last night.

Penn slowly took a few steps forward, his shoulder brushing mine in the small office.

That close I could smell the spray or body wash he’d used. Cinnamon and cloves, mixed with cedar and pine. I fought to breathe him in, acutely aware of his proximity.

I pulled up the first image, one of him and his mom working on a cake.

“Wow, this is really great,” he saidsoftly. “My mom’s going to love this.”

A soft smile played at my lips. “Can totally see the resemblance.”

I watched Penn’s cheeks tinge pink, making my heart skip a beat.

“You don’t take compliments very well, do you?”

Pen flashed his pretty blue eyes at me. “Why do you say that?”

I watched as he tucked some stray blond hair behind his ear.

“Well, for starters, you blush every time I give you one.”

Penn’s gaze flashed to mine once more as he chewed his lip.

“I guess I’m just not used to good looking guys complimentingme.Usually, I’m the one dishing out sweet nothings, you know,” he said, his voice small.

I wanted more than anything to wrap my arms around him and pull him into my lap, tell him to hell with everyone else.

As far as I was concerned, he was damn perfect.

But the sincerity in his voice called to something much deeper than my need to worship and adore Prince Charming.

What Pennneededwas acceptance.He needed the space to feel safe and comfortable in who he was, in figuring it all out.

Maybe I wasn’t cut out forthis.

Maybe I was just playing with fire.

But as I looked at Penn’s bright blue eyes, the computer monitor shining an ethereal light on him, I knew it didn’t matter what I wanted.

I’d be whatever Penn needed me to be.

“That’s because most men are afraid saying nice things means they’re soft.”

Or gay, but we all know niceness and penchant for dick are not mutually exclusive.

“Thanks,” he said, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

“You’re welcome, Cream Puff,” I said with a grin as I cycled to the next photo. I didn’t miss the way his eyes lit up when I did so, and that was all I needed.

For the moment, anyway.

“I love the angle of this,” he said as he illustrated with his long, lithe fingers toward the cake on screen. “It looks like something that should be in a magazine,” he drawled, turning to me once more. “You’re really good, you knowthat?”

Unlike Penn, I could take a compliment, but when it involved my work, I was my worst critic. But as I looked at the image, at the awe on his face, I felt seen in a way I hadn’t before.

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