“Anyone who looks at you sees you,” I said.

“You know what I mean.”

I nodded.

I knew.

“I’d like you to stay the night,” he said. “I mean, I’d really like you to, but I understand if you need to leave. I understand you have work tomorrow, and you want to make a good impression your first week.”

“I want to make a good impression always,” I said. “I find value in the work I do.”

He smiled then, and I nearly lost my breath at his beauty.

“And you don’t consider it art?”

“Not in the same way your painting is.”

His smile faded slightly. “Tell me about your art, then.”

“I haven’t painted in a while.”

“Have you lost interest?”

“No. Just time. Seems there’s always something more important to get done.”

“Are you passionate about these other things you’re doing?”

Was I? I enjoyed my work. I liked Lacey, and she treated me well.

“It’s not art in the way you mean,” I said. “I enjoy it, but no. My work is not my passion. I don’t think any little girl dreams about being an executive assistant when she grows up.”

He smiled again. “There is art in any job well done.”

“I can see that.”

“What is your passion, silver?”

My insides melted. I’d only met this man today, but when he called me “silver,” something imploded inside me. Something real, and something I’d ignored for too long. Rather, not ignored, but tried to settle for not feeling, if that made any sense.

“You going to answer me?”

“Sorry. What was the question?”

“Your passion?”

You. The word was on my tongue, and I had to stop it from tumbling out. Roy Wolfe could hardly be my passion. He and I had only just met.

Still, I longed to say it.

Instead, “I paint. Watercolors mostly.”

“A beautiful medium. Not one I ever took to.”

“I like the transparency of it.”

“Do you have any work?”

“A few. There’s one in my apartment. Most of them I’ve given away as gifts.”

“Why give them away? Why not sell them?”

“Are you insinuating that I have to get money for something for it to have worth?” I was deliberately pushing his buttons, and I knew it. I couldn’t help smiling.

“Of course not. But if you can make money from your passion, you don’t have to work.”

“Most artists never achieve the fame you have.”

“I’m hardly famous.”

“People pay for your work, don’t they?”

“They do. Some more than others.”

“So maybe you’re not famous, but you make a living.”

Did he? I had no idea. He could be living off a trust fund, for all I knew. None of my business anyway.

“No,” he said.

“No? No what?”