Page 15 of Muzzled

“A few months,” he said, leaning forward. “Does the location you’re in affect your artwork? Does the thematic undertone change based on the city you’re in? Or the climate?”

“I think you think about my process more than I ever have.” She smiled.

He straightened his back, adjusting the sleeves of his shirt. “I apologize if I’m crossing a line or getting too personal.”

Watching as he snapped a small thread and rolled it between his fingers, she shook her head. “It’s not too personal,” she reassured him. “If I’m creating for sales, the location definitely matters. As does the weather. Prairie cities generally prefer water-based themes. Brighter colors sell in southern cities. Rich areas like trifectas.”

“What about when you paint for yourself?” he pressed, balling the thread and setting it on the table. “If you had your supplies right now, what would you create?”

She sat back and crossed her arms. “Why don’t we go back to my place and see?”

*

Having whetted histeeth on goddesses and nymphs, Ryan was no stranger to the allure of beautiful women. Or the confidence of them.

But the woman sitting across from him now made him nervous.

Mike stared him down, the dark charcoal lining her eyes making her gaze appear even more intense than it already was, her lips pursed in amusement while he gathered his thoughts.

Part of him was eager to watch her work without the interruptions and noise of a crowded street, to have the freedom to ask her questions as the image unfolded, to probe for information about her ability to produce exact replicas of his memories.

The other part was panicking over what she would create.

Or, more accurately, how well he could hide his reaction to it.

“If you’re worried Logan will come by and interrupt, don’t be,” she said, pulling him from his internal debate. “He’ll be out all night.”

Brows raising at her insinuation, he shook his head quickly. “I didn’t assume—”

“And I’m almost offended you didn’t,” she said with a laugh, waving at their server and tapping his arm when he pulled his wallet out. “My treat, Mr. Patron of the Arts. Remember?”

He stood up as she glanced at the tab and passed a wad of bills to the waiter. “Thank you for dinner, then. I’ll buy next time.”

“I’m not sure if you’re overconfident in tonight, or just over-polite,” she replied as she scooped up his hand. “Guess we’ll find out soon, won’t we? I’m only two blocks from here.”

As they began the walk to her rental, he gave her hand a light squeeze. “So any hints about what you’ll be doing?”

The shift in her expression was fascinating, her hazel eyes narrowing in sharp concentration as she bit her lip and stared absently at a tree. “Spray paint.” She shook her head and looked up at him. “I reserve the right to change my mind if you inspire something different once I start.”

“Deal.” He scanned the dark walkway as she led him to a side door and followed her down the creaking steps.

She opened her door and led him in, turning the lights on and cursing Logan’s laundry under her breath. “Sorry about the mess. Logan and I live out of suitcases in these kinds of short-term rentals all year following the circuit between the U.S. and Canada, but he has yet to realize these aren’t hotels and we don’t have maids coming in to straighten up every day.”

“My younger brother used to live with me,” he said, nudging a pile of shoes against the wall. “He wasn’t housetrained, either.”

The suite was one large room, two beds on the opposite walls separated by stacks of canvases, supplies, and paint-stained containers. Finished pieces were propped against every surface, with incomplete ones in a scattered pile below the small window.

Mike knelt beside her bed and pulled a suitcase from under it, rifling through it before she shoved it back. “I’m going to change, and we’ll get started,” she announced, motioning toward the window. “Could you open that and get that fan turned on? A spray-paint high isn’t as good a time as you might think.”

He obeyed quickly, taking time to clear an empty spot on the floor for her to work. “Want me to set up the easel?”

“No thanks,” she called out from the bathroom. “But if you could spread that newspaper out, that’d be great.”

She walked out as he was finishing, obviously entertained by his meticulous creation of a workspace. “You, sit,” she ordered, wrapping an elastic around her hair and sliding a heavy metal case across the floor.

He kept his attention on her face, ignoring the urge to glance down at the tightness of her tank top or the amount of skin her shorts exposed.

Looking him over as he straddled a folding chair, she knelt in front of him, popped the case open, and grinned. “Ready to inspire?”

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