Page 115 of The Secrets We Built Together

Xander came to stand beside me, his shoulder brushing mine as we looked at the canvas together. "I know."

The pride in his voice made something warm bloom in my chest. He always did that—made me believe in myself when the doubt crept in.

"I was thinking," I started, then paused, nervousness flickering through me. "Remember when I asked you to pose for me?"

Xander let out a surprised laugh. "How could I forget? You propositioned me in front of half the town."

I grinned, bumping his shoulder with mine. "I wasn't joking. I still want to sketch you."

"Is this where I'm supposed to say 'draw me like one of your French girls'?" he teased, but there was something in his eyes, a heat that hadn't been there a moment ago.

"If you want," I said lightly, winking at him.

Xander's eyebrow quirked up, interest plain on his face. "I think I do."

I set my palette down and wiped my hands on a rag. "Come on," I said, taking his hand and leading him back to the cottage.

We'd been so busy all week that we’d barely spent any time together, even if we did fall into bed exhausted at the end of each day and fall asleep in each other’s arms. Between getting Amelia on a more regular sleep schedule, Xander working at the clinic, and me prepping for the upcoming show, we'd barely had any time alone together. But the stolen moments—a kiss in the hallway, his hand on the small of my back while I made coffee, my head on his shoulder as we watched TV after Amelia went to sleep—had been building a tension that hummed just beneath my skin.

In our bedroom, I let go of his hand and went to my nightstand, pulling out my sketchbook. "Sit," I said, gesturing to the edge of the bed.

He did, watching me with curious eyes as I flipped to a clean page and perched on the chair in the corner.

"Take off your shirt," I said, my voice steadier than I expected.

Xander's lips curved into a slow smile. "Yes, ma'am." He reached behind his neck and tugged his henley off in one smooth motion, dropping it beside him on the bed.

My breath caught. God, he was beautiful. The lean muscles of his shoulders, the planes of his chest, the trail of dark hair disappearing into his jeans. I'd seen him shirtless before, of course, but something about this—about him baring himself for my art, for me—made the moment feel sacred.

"Like this?" he asked, leaning back on the bed, stretching his body out in front of me.

I nodded, picking up my pencil. "Just like that."

I began to sketch, quick, rough lines capturing the breadth of his shoulders, the angle of his jaw. It was strangely intimate,this quiet communion between us. I watched as the tension gradually left his body, his posture softening as he relaxed into being observed.

"Tell me something I don't know about you," I said softly, my pencil moving across the paper.

Xander was quiet for a moment, his eyes never leaving mine. "I used to play piano."

That surprised me. "Really?"

He nodded. "My mother insisted. She said a gentleman should be accomplished in the arts." His lips quirked in a wry smile. "Of course, she also criticized every note I played."

"Were you good?" I asked, capturing the slope of his neck, the hollow of his throat.

"I think so. I loved it, at least." His expression turned thoughtful. "It was the one place where I felt like I could express myself. Where no one was watching or judging."

I paused my sketching. "Like how I feel when I paint."

"Exactly like that."

I smiled, returning to my drawing. "You should play for me sometime."

"I haven't touched a piano in years," he admitted. "I'm not sure I remember how."

"I bet it would come back to you. The things that are a part of us don't really leave." I glanced up at him. "Even when we think they're gone."

Something shifted in his expression, a vulnerability I wasn't used to seeing. "Is that how it was with your art? When you couldn't paint?"

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