Page 71 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“Abstract.” His mouth quirks. “Sure.”

He turns toward the one I’m working on, the one I failed to hide. I consider throwing myself in front of it like I’m stopping a bullet, but that would only make things worse.

“May I?” he asks, gesturing to the cloth covering it.

I want to say no. I should say no. But what comes out is: “It’s not finished.”

He lifts the cloth carefully. I watch his face as he studies it, the flicker of recognition, the slight widening of his eyes when he sees the fiery figure threatening to consumethe others.

“Who’s that?” he asks, pointing to the destructive presence.

“Just a visual representation of... threat.” I swallow. “Danger.”

“You depict danger as a woman of fire?” he asks suspiciously.

I shrug meekly.

“It’s doesn’t represent Vanessa, does it?” he asks.

“Oh hell no,” I tell him. “Vanessa would be a viper with huge tits.”

He laughs at that, but then his expression becomes serious again as he studies the painting once more. Then he says a single word so softly that it barely registers. “Celeste.”

He looks at me, and my face must give me away because he nods slightly. “Vanessa shouldn’t have mentioned her.”

“She clearly wanted to rattle me,” I say. “Worked, I guess.”

“You could have asked me about her.”

I shrug, reaching for a brush to give my hands something to do. “Didn’t seem like my business.”

“But you were curious enough to paint her.”

“I told you, I wasn’t painting her. I don’t even know what she looks like.” The brush trembles slightly in my hand. “I was exploring... concepts. It’s just a representation of danger.”

“Concepts that look remarkably like me, you, and a destructive force threatening both.” His voice isn’t accusatory, just matter-of-fact.

I set the brush down before I snap it in half. “Fine. Yes. I paint what’s on my mind. It’s how I process things.”

He steps closer, his gaze returning to the canvas. “You made me too tall.”

The tension between us suddenly deflates, and a startled laugh escapes me when I realize he’s joking. “That’s your critique?”

He shrugs, grinning. “Just an observation.” He’s standing right beside me now, his shoulder nearly touching mine. The studio feels impossibly small.

“Your eyes are wrong, too,” I say, turning to face him.

“How so?”

“They’re warmer than that. More gray than blue. And they change with your mood.”

Stop talking, Ava. Right now.

His gaze locks with mine, as if comparing my assessment to reality. “You’ve been studying me.”

“I’m an artist. I notice details.” My voice comes out huskier than intended.

“What else have you noticed?” He’s so close that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the subtle notes beneath his cologne, something uniquely him.

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