Page 31 of Partnering with the Artist

“No. Only saying that your relationship with that machine is illicit. And you should get a room.”

“Iamin my room. Maybeyoushould get out of it and leave us in peace.” I hope my sketchbook isn’t lost under a mound of fabric. “Also, sewing machine is to me as mop is to you.We’regetting married next spring. Because we aren’t indecisive.” I flick my tongue out at her as I locate my sketchbook stuffed into an overflowing cubby on the other side of my room.

“If I make ravioli, will you eat lunch?” she asks as I’m hobbling toward my precious. (I may have kicked my bedpost when I fumbled out of my chair.)

I brighten. “Ravioli?”

“Okay. I’m gonna make ravioli, then.Pleasesleep in your bed tonight. And start telling your laundry clients that you’re resigning when they come by later to pick up. With all this nonsense, you could open a dress boutique if you stop modeling for Zakery—and thenthatcan be our fallback.” She mutters something else to herself as she leaves my room, but I can’t make it out, and it doesn’t matter, anyway.

Because I’ve secured my notebook, opened to a fresh page, and started sketching outfits suitable for a prince.

Chapter 11

?

What is love? Princess, don’t hurt me.

Zakery

Incredible. Outstanding. Flawless. Riveting. Fantastic. Glorious. Prodigious. Sensational!

I’ve been under-utilizing my beautiful muse.

Flipping through her sketchbook of designs, I return to the page she initially shared with me—the one covered in ideas for princely garb that matches the elements she thinks she’ll be including in the gown she’s planning for herself. I look up at her.

Once our eyes lock, she babbles, “I know it’s nothing so amazing as your art, but I promise it’ll look good once I actually make it, as long as it’s clear enough to pick out the design you want, that’s good enough.” She twirls in her pretty pink sundress, and my heart responds as the free skirt flares, showing a bit more of her slender legs than I am wholly used to seeing. “See?” Sheinvitesme to gaze upon her outfit’s splendor. “I made this.”

“It’s stunning.” You’re stunning. Wow. Just…wow, Maelin. You…are sensational.

She smiles, and my heart continues reacting irresponsibly.

“All of this is stunning.” I close the book, hand it back to her. “I want you to decide what suits me best. Also,” I rise, snapping my fingers, “a studio.”

“A…studio?”

“Yes.” I turn off the dais, intent on heading toward my bedroom door. Stopping suddenly, I whirl and catch her predictable fall off the step. Yikes. Close one, that, I was almosttoo distracted.

Chuckling softly, she grips me and regains her footing. “Sorry. One of these days, I’ll get the distance right. I’ve at least begun remembering it’s there…but…so far that is not helping about half the time.”

It could not help the entire time. I would be very content to catch her multiple times every single day. She’s…something. I don’t know how to explain the brief moments I am given leave to touch her. The woman has a comfortable, present weight that sinks into my hands—makes her feel somewhat more real and less like an ethereal wisp of fantasy.

“What do you mean bystudio?” she asks.

“You need one. The state of your room when I left you Saturday evening kept me restless the rest of the weekend. You have no place to sleep. I had a nightmare that you slept curled up on the one slice of clear carpet, bundled up beneath a stretch of fabric, freezing.”

“It’s…summer?”

Ask me if I care. “You did not deny my horror story. That simply won’t do.” Marching, I trail across the hall, to a dormant room. Tucked into a central part of the manor, it sees no sunlight, but I did change the lighting yesterday to make sure it would be adequate for all creative endeavors.

Flicking the switch, I display black tile, black walls, bare space like a void.

“You’re welcome to decorate however you see fit. I know it’s…depressing.” I turn to her, fixate on her wide, beautiful eyes. Awe fills her cells as she holds her sketchbook clamped to her chest. I continue, “We can spend some part of today picking out furniture, new paint, new flooring. Whatever you need.”

She tenses, drags her gaze off the room, looks at me.

“Then, later this week, we can transport your seamstress things from your bedroom to your studio. I’ve asked Kaleb tohelp.” Ah. Right. Patting my pockets, I locate the key I had made yesterday and hold the silver metal out to her. “To the home.”

Her breath catches.

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