With horror, Flynn felt his throat suddenly thicken. Because when he’d created that portrait, it had been his mother’s face he had painted. A woman who had raised Flynn on her own, who had done what she had to so that they both might survive. A woman who had loved Flynn unconditionally until the day she had died, even though he hadn’t been able to give her her greatest wish.

“Are you really lecturing me on how to paint, Beaumont?” Flynn barked roughly because he couldn’t say any of that to this boy. Wouldn’t say any of that to Beaumont or anyone else for that matter. Ever. He could feel the weight of the boy’s gaze on him, and he resisted the urge to fidget. Dammit, what was wrong with him?

“I’m not lecturing you on anything, Mr. Rutledge,” Beaumont finally said. “I’m…envying you, I think.”

Rutledge made a rude noise. “For what?” he demanded. “You envy me that commission? I did it five years ago, and—”

“I’m envying you that love. Whoever it was in your life who possessed a generous heart like that and allowed you to see what unconditional love truly looks like.”

Flynn found himself staring at Beaumont, utterly unnerved and unable to find words. What the hell was happening? In a handful of sentences, Charlie Beaumont had obliterated the fortifications he had constructed between Flynn Rutledge the professional artist and Flynn Rutledge the man. Seen right through him with a terrifying accuracy. Seen parts of his past that no one else had.

Beaumont abruptly turned. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable, Mr. Rutledge,” he said. “That was not my intention.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” Flynn snapped, lying through his teeth.

“Oh. Then I’m glad.” Beaumont disappeared into his room and reemerged with his sketchbook.

“Where are you going now, Mr. Beaumont?” Flynn asked with an edge to his voice.

“To compose some ideas,” Beaumont replied politely.

“And to capture buckets of emotion on those pages, I’m sure.” He was behaving like an ass but he couldn’t seem to find his equilibrium.

Beaumont paused, silhouetted in the door frame against the winter-dulled grounds. “I certainly hope so, Mr. Rutledge,” he said, before closing the door behind him.

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

When she first saw Flynn Rutledge with the light streaming through the windows turning his rich skin gold and his grey eyes silver, she had wondered if perhaps she had stumbled across the archangel she’d been charged to paint.