Page 54 of Selling Innocence

Except, given the way he tried and failed to get his shirt off, I had a feeling he’d just keep at it until he got it or knocked himself out of the bed.

Stubborn drunk.

I kneeled on the bed and shooed his hands away. “Let me.”

He jerked back, as if afraid to touch me, then glared.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” I muttered as I worked free the buttons, trying hard to ignore each inch of skin revealed. I pretended I was undressing a toddler, like I’d said before, rather than a very attractive man who I had no doubts would give me everything if I just asked him to. “I’m helping you, after all. You should be nicer to me.”

“I’m always nice.” His pout was downright adorable.

“No, you’re not. You may say things that sound nice—sometimes—but they’re not real.”

“I always tell you how pretty you are.”

I laughed at that, at the way it brought back all the times he’d done just that. “You would tell a ninety-seven-year-old she was pretty if you thought you could get something out of it. Either you lie when you say it to everyone, or you have such low standards that you think everyone is pretty.”

He pressed his lips together, then tore his gaze away, staring at the ceiling instead of me. “Well, I really do think you’re pretty.”

“Oh yeah? And when did you start thinking that?” I tugged the hem of his shirt from his pants so I could undo the last buttons, the fabric now resting open and loose, revealing his entire chest and stomach.

And boy did he look amazing.

“Not at first.” Vance’s words made me frown for a moment as I thought back to what we’d been talking about. Before I could get offended, though, he kept speaking. “When I saw you at your college, I thought you were just another hanger-on. I was there to see what you were like, to see if there was anything special about you, and I didn’t see it.”

“You see? Not nice.”

He went on as though I hadn’t spoken. In fact, I had no idea exactly how much of what I said made it through the liquor and into his cloudy brain. “I thought you were pretty when I saw your sketchbook.”

“What?” The question escaped me when it was the last thing I’d expected.

“Hair and makeup and cleavage and clothing don’t mean a thing to me. Those are easy to get, especially in my world. Anyone can buy a pretty face or a better body. So whether you were pretty or not physically never mattered to me. When I saw your sketchbook, though? I liked that.”

“You looked at a few rough sketches. Those were hardly worth you noticing.”

He shook his head and slung his arm over his face. Was he hiding his eyes? His expression? “I could see your passion. When some people draw, they draw what they think the world wants. They give them pretty skylines and bright colors and whatever will sell. What I saw in your sketchbook was deeper than that. It was like you’d peeled away your skin and bled on the page. Each line meant something, and when I saw that, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” He laughed softly, the sound full of pain. “That’s when I thought you were pretty, because I couldn’t stop seeing that sort of thing when I looked at you. I’m jealous of that sort of openness. Not a lot of artists can put their entire soul out on the paper like that.”

His praise hit differently than it usually did. Normally, he treated me like a piece of meat he wanted to chew on. This, though? It made a smile tug at my lips, the compliment the sort of thing I actually wanted to hear from him.

Still, he was so drunk, he had no idea what he was talking about. Come tomorrow, he’d end up forgetting all about it. I didn’t push him about eating anymore, because he’d drank so much that he’d probably end up choking on the food anyway. I didn’t want to have to clean his vomit up, either.

Sleeping it off would do him the best.

“Aren’t you going to finish stripping me?” Vance peeked at me from beneath his arm, the look beyond adorable. This playful side of him made my heart speed.

“You’re impossible, you know that?”

“You don’t let me get close any other time. Gotta strike while the iron’s hot, right?” He offered me a lopsided grin that made him look downright boyish.

I wanted to tell him no, but at the same time, he needed sleep. “Fine,” I muttered. “But don’t get any bright ideas, okay?”

“No worries,” he assured me. “After how much I drank, I don’t think I could even get it up.”

“Imagine the newspaper headlines from that—notorious playboy impotent?” I unhooked his belt, then undid the button at his waist, all the while telling myself this was just taking care of him. This was no different than a nurse undressing a patient.

Professional. Yep. That was what this was. Totally freaking professional.

“Don’t make jokes like that, or I’ll get hard just to prove you wrong.”

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