“You can’t make a living off of doodles.”

“What does making a living have to do with it?”

His tone was so arrogantly royal, she had to laugh. “Oh, nothing other than food, shelter, responsibility.” She came back to set the pot on the table, turned to fetch cups. “Little things like that from the real world.”

“Then sell your art if you’ve a need to make a living.”

“Nobody’s going to buy pencil sketches from an English teacher.”

“I’ll buy this one.” He rose and held the book open to one of her studies of the wolf. In it, the wolf stood, facing the onlooker with a challenging glint in his eyes exactly like the one in Liam’s. “Name your price.”

“I’m not selling it, and you’re not buying it to make some point.” Refusing to take him seriously, she waved him back. “Sit down and have your tea.”

“Then give me the sketch.” He angled his head as he looked at it again. “I like it. And this one.” He flipped the page to the trees and fern fairies. “I could use something like this in the game I’m doing. I’ve no talent for drawing.”

“Then who does the drawings for your graphics?” she asked, hoping to change the subject, and as a last resort, got out the burned buns.

“Mmm. Different people for different moods.” He sat again, absently took one of the rolls. It was hard and undeniably burned, but if you got past that, it was wonderfully sweet and generously filled with currants.

“So how do you—”

“Do either of your parents draw?” he interrupted.

“No.” Even the thought of it made her chuckle. The idea of either of her smart and busy parents settling down to dream with pencil and paper. “They gave me lessons when I was a child and showed an interest. And my mother actually keeps a sketch I made of the bay, from when I was a teenager, framed and in her office at the university.”

“So she appreciates your talent.”

“She loves her daughter,” Rowan corrected, and poured the tea.

“Then she should expect the daughter she loves to pursue her own gifts, explore her own talents,” he said casually, but continued down the path of her family. “Perhaps one of your grandparents was an artist.”

“No, my paternal grandfather was a teacher. It seems to come naturally through the family. My grandmother on that side was what I suppose you’d call a typical wife and mother of her time. She still keeps a lovely home.”

He struggled against impatience—and against a wince as Rowan added three spoons of sugar to her cup. “And on your mother’s side?”