Page 55 of Partnering with the Artist

“Okay,” he whispers, and my insipid heart lifts, eager to please as it awaits another instruction followed by praise. I likepraise, apparently. Harry did not provide much of that stuff. But I really, really like it. “You can relax now. I have the information I need.”

As I lower my arms, he sits on the bed, up against the pillow I slept on last night, and pulls a leg up to rest his tablet on as he keeps working.

I scoot toward him. (Inconspicuously.)

“What are you doing?” he murmurs, still smiling when he cuts a look my way.

I am very interested in the nightstand my sketchbook is on, not in whatever he might be doing—duh. “Nothing…”

“No peeking. At least give me a chance to make it something worth your attention.”

A five minute scribble would be worth my attention if he drew it. I’ve been posing for nearly thirty.

Nevertheless, I respect his wishes, take up my sketchbook, and settle myself in to doodle new ideas. Working with the sheer fabric of my robe this morning just about drove me insane. It’s a good thing I woke up at four. That gave me time to have my breakdown and finish up before Zakery was bringing me breakfast. He thought I’d still be in bed. On top of not wanting me to feel like I had to go downstairs and brave his family again after last night, he was trying for theromantically clichébreakfast in bed.

You know—he said—since we’re lovers now, he must strive to provide me with romantic gestures. So I feel wanted, appreciated, and cared for.

It is a starkly different experience than anything I’m used to.

I’d assume it was love bombing if he were any less confused in his sincerity. The man very deeply does not know what he’s doing, but he’s doing it anyway, and narrating his intentions as he goes.

“Do you like cutesy or sexy?” I ask.

“I don’t understand the question.”

I sketch a figure and add a low-cut back. “I’m still trying to pin down what sort of dress I want for the Creator’s Ball. I know the details I’d like to incorporate, but I’m not sure on style, and it’s occurred to me thatballmight be a stretch. Is this actually anevening gownevent more than aball gownevent?”

“Ah,” he says. “It doesn’t matter. You can do what you want. You’ll be with five men.” He furrows his brow at his tablet screen. “Whobite.”

That’s…reassuring? “But what doyoulike?” I ask.

He stills, glancing at me. “I like what you’re wearing right now.”

“I can’t go to a fancy event in basically pajamas.”

“You can. We bite, remember?”

“I am not comfortable going to a fancy event in basically pajamas.”

“Ahh.” He nods. “That’s something else entirely. Got it. I want extravagance. I love the motion of fabric, what it adds to a piece. Elegance and grace. Movement.”

“Layers?” I ask.

“Layers,” he confirms.

I add ripples to the skirt, off-shoulder sleeves, floral hints, butterflies. It’ll pair perfectly with the golden branches I plan to work into Zakery’s ensemble. (Just as soon as pants and I come to an…agreement.) Black and gold for him. White and gold for me.

It might, violently, look like a wedding dress…

But—I glance at his cryptic expression—I think I can live with that.

Who knows?

Maybe it’ll even save us time later.

?

“You’re dating Zakery?” Morana asks as she drives us home.

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