“A Coke would be great.” I needed to keep a level head this evening.

“Coming right up.”

I moved through the space, knowing exactly where everything was that I needed but also trying to give Brody a wide berth. He seemed to hum with some sort of energy, a forcefield surrounding him. A buzz that made my entire body acutely aware of where he was at all times.

I placed the bowls next to the stove to be filled and crossed to the kitchen table to set down the spoons. As I turned back to the kitchen, I caught sight of the open doors to the sunporch. Tarps covered the floor, and an easel peeked out from the space. “What are you doing in there?”

“Hmmm?” He turned to see where I was looking and chuckled. “More like what I’m not doing. Painting.”

I hadn’t asked any questions about my new boss, but the crates and new studio made a lot more sense now. “Is that what you do for work?”

His brows rose. “The Dowds or Lara didn’t tell you?”

“No. Your manager and I just talked about what you might need on the island. And your preferences for foods and household items.”

He rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw. “That makes me feel like a real asshole. I’m sorry I didn’t make time to talk to you before I arrived. Things in New York were…hectic before I left.”

“It’s not a problem. And I never want to be nosy.”

Brody’s dark eyes seemed to spark with amusement. “I always want to be nosy.”

“You wouldn’t be a very good caretaker then.”

“I guess not.” He studied me for a moment before ladling the chili into the two bowls. “Ask whatever you want. If I don’t want to answer it, I won’t. But I promise not to be offended or fire you for asking something personal.”

There were endless things I wanted to know, but the problem with questions was that if you asked, people also assumed you’d answer. It was an intricate dance of scratching the surface but not going too deep. “What do you paint?”

He handed me a bowl. As I took it, our fingers brushed. His skin was rough, the texture seeming to match the man. No nonsense or pretense. “Mostly people,” he answered.

“Oil?” Having been so involved in the violin world at such a young age, I’d gone to a school for the arts. Many of my classmates were already masters with a canvas and brush.

His lips twitched. “Spray paint.”

I slowly sat my bowl on the table and turned back to face Brody. “You paint people…with spray paint?”

He burst out laughing. “You should see your face right now. I might as well have told you that I pilot missions to Mars on my twelve-speed.”