Page 42 of Switched At Birth

“Fuck yeah, I am.”

I place the car in drive, and we take the three-minute ride to the studio. He has no idea what I have asked Kate to do. I can’t wait to see his face. Today may be my favorite day ever.

* * *

Kate gaveme the code to the studio, framing my sketch and placing it under a blanket on an easel.

“This is so ominous.” Ashton’s tone carries a hint of sarcasm. But his hands quake in mine, clearing his throat and raking his fingers through his hair. Why is he nervous?

“I don’t have a secret room in there where I’ll murder you, Ash.” I’m the one who is nervous. I don’t typically worry if the public likes my work. I never take it to heart, because art is subjective. But, I want Ashton to like the piece I’ve made, because it was inspired by him. Sweat pools at the base of my neck, and my heart is about to beat out of my chest.

We approach the door, but then we stop and he tugs me into his space. “What the hell do you have planned for me. Something naughty?” he teases suggestively, lifting his brows with a smile containing a sensual flare.

“You know, you look innocent; however, you’re anything but.”

He lifts his eyes up, full of tenderness, and his voice cracks with emotion. “I can be just as sweet.” His words don’t carry a flirt but rather a promise.

This guy has me so twisted up. “Come on, sweetness. I have something to show you.”

Opening the door to her studio, the lights are off, except two wall sconces on opposite ends of the wall. But, I’m confused, because there aretwopictures covered. One is larger than mine.

“Shit, did I just get set up?” I ask, thinking I was the only one who had a surprise up my sleeve.

“Sort of, but I have no idea what you have in store for me, handsome.”

I walk away from him, over to his apparent painting. This man is so heartbreakingly sweet it just radiates from him.

The painting is large, horizontal in orientation and around forty inches wide by thirty inches high. “This is you, I assume?” My eyes scour the shrouded piece, wondering what it can be. I’d seen what he’d been currently working on. Is he done?

“So, do I get to see it?” I ask, rolling my shoulders to avoid a stiff neck. Now, I’m really nervous.

“I think you should go first, babe.” His arms wrap around my waist, behind me, resting his chin on my shoulders, looking at the covered picture, like me. Unlike me, he knows what’s under the sheet.

“You’re mean.” I joke pout.

“Wait. There are so many mixed signals here. First, I’m sweet, then I’m what—mean?”

Twisting my body around, we’re face to face. “I have a confession, Ash.”

“Oh, yeah?” His brows arch in question.

“I don’t care what people think of my pieces. I read my negative reviews and laugh at them. They’re ridiculous. The constructive reviews I consider, and sometimes, they have merit, but the ones that say my three-year-old can paint better than Noah James, I can only laugh at.” I take a breather, clearing my throat. “Anyway, I don’t get nervous. But I’m nervous for you to see this. I drew it in one night. And I don’t typically draw or sketch, except when I’m working on something like a painting or sculpture, throwing away the rough drafts.”

His fingers glide up my arm, and I watch his every move. His free hand clenches my chin. “Noah, baby, I can’t wait—you’re sharing this important part of yourself with me, and if it’s from you, it’s going to mean the world to me.”

One sentence. In one fucking sentence, he calms my churning stomach. “Just know, that you make me want to do better. And this is just one example.”

I walk him over to my piece, the sixteen by twenty-four vertical charcoal sketch. My fingers are wet with sweat, and I carefully remove the covering. I look upon the picture as if it’s my first time but turn toward Ashton. His mouth drops open and he steps forward, reaching his hand out toward the sketch. He won’t touch, this much I know, but his finger traces the outline of his body, an inch above the paper.

“Holy fucking heaven on earth. What is this? It’s a masterpiece! And I’m not just saying that because you drew me. Wait—that is me, right?”

This elicits a bubble of laughter from me. “Yes, babe, that’s you.”

“Well, regardless of who it is, it’s fucking amazing.”

I wrap my arms around his waist, looking at the picture as he does. “Itwouldmatter if that was another person, because no one has ever pushed me to be the best version of myself.”

It’s his turn to twist around. “You sure know what to say to make me feel special.” He pauses. “I imagine you’ll get top dollar for it?”

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