Page 34 of Partnering with the Artist

Boundaries. After what Zakery told me about how he defineslove…I’m pretty sure he’s fabulous with boundaries. I just need to, you know,make them.

Glancing back at him, in an effort to gauge his mood, I find him several yards away, still, staring at a beautiful bed display draped in elegant lace. Gentle smile forgotten, he blinks. He approaches the bed set, runs his fingers along the carved footboard, calls, “Maelin.”

My heart jumps as I force myself to his side. “Yes?”

“Should you get a bed for your studio?”

My stomach drops.

There it is.

Abed.

The gateway furniture to how he expects me topayfor his kindnesses. Except, he did say if he were interested inall that, he wouldjust ask. It’s clear his parents did a number on him, and he says they were manipulators. Do I trust the thread of restrained loathing in his voice, orgenetics?

After Harry, I’m hesitant to ever trust a man again.

Even if that man has grand, impossible definitions of love and wraps me sweetly in his arms to whisper, beg,pleadwith me to value myself as though I am deserving of every impossible thing.

Innocently attentive, he murmurs down at the bedroom set, “You might get sleepy while you’re working…or want to play in your studio later than your sister works.” His hand dives into his hair, and he scratches his head as his brows knit. “Should I just get you your own car or… Both? What if you’re too tired to drive? I know how creative projects can be sometimes. You wake up from the trance, and it’s three in the morning. You shouldn’t be driving at three in the morning.”

His eyes close while he ponders, and my heart beats against my ribs.

Now he’s thinking about buying mea car?

Where does this generosity end?

Whyme?

Why is he seeing fit to spoil a clumsy, jabbering lunatic he met in a fursuit?

Sitting around and making him clothes is not an equivalent exchange.

His shoulders droop, and he peers at me, gaze intense, burrowing. A smile graces his lips—wickedly—as he rocks his head back and takes me in. “Then again,” he purrs, “ifI don’t get you a bed, and you stay over one night, we can share mine.”

Ah hah!Iknewit. “Sir, I would never do such a thing. You put the thought from your mind.” Oddly, concern is not at all reaching me. Even though itshould. Harry gave me enough trauma in this regard to make me terrified of casual comments like this for life.

Except, of course, Zakery doesn’t press the joke. Not even for a moment.

Instead, his lip juts in a harmless pout. After an instant, the expression vanishes, and I suspect that someone has approached, but we’re still alone in the mock bedroom. A gleam lights fire in his eyes. “I just had a thought.”

“A terrible thought?” I query.

His head shakes. “No, no. Abrilliantthought. You know those robes.” He motions with his hands. “They’re sheer, and large, and often lined with some kind of faux fur?”

“Um. Yes?”

“Can you make one of those?”

“You want a luxury, fur-hemmed robe?”

“Yes. For you. In pink.”

I peer at him. “Why…?”

He cups his hand to his mouth. “I just had this image of you, against dark bedding, wearing one of those robes, the sheer fabric spilling everywhere like water, your eyes half-lidded and unfocused, your fingers in your hair…” He swears, unseeing. “It’s so beautiful. It’s the kind of image that belongs painted, on canvas, with oils and brushes, so youfeelthe texture.” His head shakes some more. “No,no. I couldneverhope to do such a thing justice. But…”

It is almost, quite entirely, as though he doesn’t understand the scandalous nature of what he’s just described. At all.

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