Page 53 of Lessons in Heartbreak

Then he blinked.

Then he leaned closer to the canvas, snatching it out of my hands.

“The fuck ...,” he whispered. His eyes locked with mine. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re like, fucking Picasso?”

My eyebrows arched. “Because I’m not?”

“This is good.” His head reared back as he studied the painting with almost frantic eye movements. “Holy shit, Ruby, this is really fucking good.”

Clasping my hands in front of me, I cleared my throat. “Thank you.”

His jaw hung open. “I’m keeping this. I’m framing it and keeping it and it’s going up at my house whenever I buy one.”

I laughed. “You are not.” Standing from the desk, I tried to take the canvas back, and he snapped it out of reach. I set my hands on my hips. “You are not framing that at your house.”

“Says who? It’s my house. This is the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Of course you’d say that. It’s your face.”

He kept his gaze locked on the canvas. “I do not look like this in real life.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I painted you as I see you.”

“I don’t think I’m this hot, birdy.” Griffin turned the canvas around so it was next to his face. “Tell the truth. You made me hotter.”

My face burned at the insinuation. For a moment, I tried to study the image objectively—golden-brown eyes straight to the front; the way his hair curled, slightly too long over his ears; the hard line of his jaw and the crooked smirk I’d given his mouth—but all I could see was him. “I think it looks like you.”

He blew a raspberry. “Whatever you say.”

I drew in a deep breath. “Okay, your turn. Let me see.”

“No fucking way.” He picked up his canvas. “This is going into the garbage.”

With a gasp, I marched forward. “It is not. You show me right now.”

Griffin shook his head, ruthlessly swatting at my hand when I tried to take the canvas from him. I huffed, setting my hands on my hips again. “You’re ten times bigger than me; this isn’t fair.”

He clicked his tongue. “Tough shit. Life isn’t fair, cupcake.”

I was two seconds away from stomping my foot when I had an idea. It was Griffin’s idea, really. Something he’d said to me on my very own couch, just before he held his hand out to me and offered himself up as the world’s sexiest hand-holding partner.

What would I do if this were a real date?

Courage was something I could hold in my hand. Something I could see and feel and touch. A canvas with bright colors, painting a man with a sharp jaw and a beautiful smile and big, big hands that were so warm and rough when they curled around my own.

Bravery was something different, of course. It was the absence of fear when you stepped into a precarious situation.

Maybe that wasn’t me all the time. But it was tonight.

And it wasn’t because he’d bought me pretty clothes or checked out my ass like it was something worth staring at. It was because he’d let me hold his hand and made me feel good in that seemingly insignificant snippet of time. Worthy of that small piece of affection and normalcy.

I took a deep breath and stepped forward, laying my hands on his chest. Griffin went still as a stone the moment I touched him. The heat from his skin seeped through his shirt like it wasn’t there.

“Please,” I whispered, taking one step closer. “Please show me.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “What are you doing?”

My tongue darted out to lick at my suddenly dry lips, and my stomach flipped weightlessly when his eyes tracked the movement. “You asked me last night what I’d do if this was a real date, right?”

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