Page 72 of Angel

He had no idea how devastating he appeared, sprawled out in nothing but sunglasses and a pair of swim shorts.

The Italian sun made his muscles gleam, highlighting the ink etched across his honey-tan skin and tracing the lines of a sinewed body that was pure, unadulterated perfection.

Every instinct in my hands wanted to paint him, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask.

I had no stomach for the awkwardness if he turned me down.

So I kept my head down, biting my lip, brushing blue and gray watercolor to map out the jagged cliffs over the ocean.

I glanced up when he dumped his shades onto a towel on the inflatable, slid off the float, and cut through the pool in long, clean strokes.

After five laps, he swam to the tiled coping beside my easel, water pouring off his hair.

His eyes locked on my canvas.

‘That shadow under the cliff needs more violet, Roxy,’ he grunted, wiping his face.

My brush hovered.

‘Violet? Really?’

‘Yeah.’ He rested his forearms on the stone rim, arching a brow. ‘Gives it depth.’

‘Thanks, I’ll give it a shot,’ I muttered, dabbing purple onto my palette.

As he hauled himself out of the pool, water running down the cut of his back, my heart rate went through the roof.

‘Fuck me,’ I uttered to myself.

How much more of this torture could I take?

I was thirty-one years old, yet I was fangirling him hard.

He prowled across the deck, his muscles rippling as he dried off and threw on a loose vest, thank heavens, because I needed the visual shield.

‘Given you’ve offered me advice,’ I murmured to dissolve my tension, ‘I dare you to show me what you’ve got.’

He narrowed his eyes on me.

‘Please explain.’

‘Draw for me.’

His eyes lit up at the challenge.

He found his battered notebook sitting by his guitar, flipped past pages of scribbles, and set his pencil to the paper.

He worked fast.

Aggressive, precise strokes. Five minutes later, he turned the pad around.

It was me.

Not some airbrushed fantasy, but me, eyes vulnerable, face soft, pencil shades of the paint smeared on my forearm, bare and exposed.

It was stunning.

My throat shut down. Tears pricked my eyes, so I shut them.