Page 32 of Flame
As he orders a replacement for the door, I sweep the remaining shards of broken glass.
“You’ll need flyers, I guess,” I tell him once he’s hung up. A glance over my shoulder reveals him to be watching me, slumped against the wall in a position he must find the most comfortable. “That’s what Mr. Zhang had made for his reopening.”
“I guess I do.” He shuffles to another corner of the space and fishes out a sheath of paper and a pen. He flattens the sheet with one hand and starts to sketch. I find myself drifting closer, trying to guess the creature he’s forming with stroke after stroke.
Gradually, a woman comes to life. Her large, dark eyes stare from the page, full of questioning wonder. Frizzy bangs. Long, curling hair...
“Very funny,” I choke out once his subject becomes painfully obvious.
He doesn’t look up, his brow drawn in concentration. Soon, his entire posture shifts, as if he’s transcended the pain, too intent on his work. His hand moves steadily, possessed by some unnatural grace that allows him to form delicate lines in one motion and harsher broad strokes the next.
“Rafe?”
He doesn’t react, blind to everything but this. Drawing. Creating. Bleeding his thoughts onto paper, shaping reality with the swipe of a pen.
My irritation gives way to shameless awe. Some of the emotion swelling in my chest is pure jealousy.
But the rest?
At some point, I have to mentally separate the woman he’s drawing from myself. She’s too beautiful. Too mysterious, her gaze so penetrating it’s impossible to know what she’s thinking. Her expression could convey a million different emotions. Interest. Disinterest. Lust. Wonder. Hate.
She’s the type of woman I secretly strive to be. Someone confident. Talented. Prideful.
“Done,” Rafe declares, shoving the drawing aside. He reaches into his stash again, this time withdrawing two slips of paper and another pen. “I work. You write,” he commands, shoving both toward me.
I bite my lip rather than argue.
He’s already starting on another sketch, but I sense his intention is to deliberately provoke me this time. The outline is broader, spanning the width of the entire page. Like magic, a figure forms—someone feminine, slender with bare legs, and a delicately curved torso.
“Nice,” I scoff, my cheeks flaming.
He has the nerve to meet my stare without an ounce of humor. “Get to work.” He taps my untouched sheet of paper. “A deal’s a deal, bunny.”
He returns to his task, easily shutting out the world again.
Without taking my eyes from him, I pick up the pen. Hold it to the page. Stall…
Set it aside.
“Write,” Rafe demands, dropping all pretense. “Tell me what’s in your head, bunny. Right now. Don’t hold back. Let me fucking have it.”
Asshole,I scribble. But that word bleeds into another, and then an entire sentence. Before I realize it, I’m scribbling down a paragraph, the words disjointed and sloppy, the meaning unclear.
But watching him robs me of the doubt I’m used to fighting.
And I hate him for it.
Envy infects me instead. He’s so shameless in his expression. My initial suspicion was right, and a lewd display quickly comes together—a naked woman, lying on her side, her gaze concealing a dare. A taunt. A refusal. A beckoning.
She’s an infuriating contradiction, her shape etched with brutal detail. Slender hips, perky breasts, and a proud tilt to her chin. I’m frowning, and my pen drifts, forming a slash across the entire page until I drop the pen altogether.
“Stop!” I slam my hand over his sketch, but the look he gives me. It’s utter confusion.
“What?” I don’t miss how his hand flutters toward the page as if to shield it from sight before he curls a fist.
“I…” I’m insulted…I think. Why? Because… “That’s not me.” I wait for him to deny that it was ever supposed to be. “I don’t look like that.”
Likethat. Bold, displaying naked, beautiful limbs and a sensual appeal that takes my breath away. My blood boils, heated by another jealous thought—how many of his previous conquests did he mash into that picture?
