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Steady hazel eyes bore into mine, not scowling for once. They’re searching. Curious. All while the heat of his skin seeps into my palm, and his heartbeat taps against my thumb.
Tap, tap, tap.
“They’re no good,” I rush to say. “Those sketches aren’t ready yet. Please don’t look at them.”
Oh god, I’ll die if Flint looks at them. If he sees the evidence of my tragic crush, then looks at me with revulsion, or worse—pity. I’d die.
His jaw works. Flint watches me steadily, considering, but he makes no move to flip through my incriminating sketchbook. There’s that, at least, even as my knees tremble beneath the table.
Instead, he flips the whole thing closed and taps the cover. I melt with relief, sagging on my stool—until he speaks.
“You ever draw me, Marigold?”
His tone is strangely gentle. It makes me feel even more like a bug when I lie, crossing my fingers out of sight.
“Nope.”
One heartbeat. Two. Then Flint tilts his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. Lord, have I ever seen this man crack a smile? Have I ever heard him laugh in all these months? I don’t think so.
“You want to?” he says.
I squint like he just spoke double Dutch. “Huh?”
“Do you want to draw me?” Flint says it again, slow and clear, his mouth tugging up at one corner. It’s almost a smile, but not quite. More like the promise of one in the near future. “I could model for you. That’s what it’s called, right? Modeling.”
“Um… yeah. I mean, yes, that’s what it’s called.”
What. Is. Happening?
“I’ve never modeled for anyone before.” Flint leans close, like he’s telling me a secret in that gruff voice of his, and an answering shiver cascades down my spine. This bar is hot and loud, the lights hazy on the walls. “Hell, I’m in barely any photos, even. Not since I was a boy. Starting to think I might not exist at all. There’s no paper trail of me, that’s for sure.”
I snatch up my lemonade again, sucking down a desperate mouthful. Think. I need to think.
“I can draw you like this,” I say at last, nodding at the crowd in the bar. “No one else has really modeled for me. I just sketch them as they’re going about their business.”
“And is that better?” Flint presses.
I frown at my closed sketchbook. Is it pathetic that it never occurred to me to ask someone to sit for me? Not even Tess or Jana or any of the regulars I’ve gotten to know over the last few months? I just went ahead and assumed the answer would be…
“No.”
Flint makes a low noise. He sounds pleased.
“Then draw me, Marigold,” the bar boss says again, his voice lowered. “Draw me when I know it’s happening.”
I glance up, startled, but Flint’s already stepping away from my table, backing up into the crowd. “Stay late tonight,” he calls. “After closing.”
Dazed, I nod.
There’s a flash of triumph, then Flint turns away.
And I sit with my chewed pencil, my closed sketchbook, and the soggy paper straw collapsing into my lemonade, wondering what the hell I’ve just agreed to.
Four
Flint
In hindsight, I should’ve worn a better shirt. If I planned to make this gamble, if I meant to challenge Marigold to draw me tonight, I should’ve spruced myself up a bit first.
