Suzanne rolled her eyes as she made the broad brushstrokes of his outline. “Then use the bathroom. If you need to scratch your nose or take a break, that’s fine; you don’t have to lie there not moving for hours.”

“Good. I’m not someone who can just lie around for hours. In fact, I doubt I’ve been this inactive since…since before I came to Credence.”

Since before his parents and girlfriend died and his life was shot to hell.

He hadn’t said it or even implied it in his tone, but Suzanne couldn’t help wondering if he was back there right now, in that moment. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said with a smile, desperate to have him here with her, in this moment. “I wouldn’t say you’ve been inactive.”

He laughed, and his heated gaze fanned across the tops of her thighs barely covered by his shirt. “That’s true.” He shoved his hands under his head. “So what shall we talk about?”

Suzanne could think of a million things—his parents, Bethany, coming to Credence, his time in the military. Loss, grief, recovery. But she wanted him to relax and talk to her, not clam up. “Tell me about Bob Downey. He seems to have a lot of influence for an octogenarian who lives at the old folks’ home.”

“God…” Grady gave a short, sharp half laugh. “This blizzard would need to rage for a year to tell it all. Let’s talk about you instead.”

Suzanne glanced up sharply. “What about me?”

“Tell me why your muse was missing all those years.”

Jaysus. So he wanted to start with the easy stuff, then? She painted on for a minute, not answering, contemplating not answering at all but wanting, strangely, to tell him if only so she could figure it out herself.

“That hard, huh?” he said as the silence stretched.

She stopped painting, trying to find a way through the mental minefield. “I’m good at forging… At replicating. Like, really good. But it doesn’t require any…creative spark. I just literally copy what I see.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“Well, no, the process is often long and laborious, but the act of copying has always come easily for me. Except it put my muse into hibernation, you know? Which isn’t good when you’re trying to paint originals.”

“It’s like your mom said: The muse has to be exercised, right?”

“Right. And also…”

“Also?” he pushed after she’d been silent for a while.

Suzanne shrugged. “I’ve been…scared, I guess.”

“Of what?”

“I…don’t know.” Suzanne put brush to canvas again. “Scared that I didn’t have it in me. That I wasn’t capable of something original.”

“I think sticking my head on a cherub is pretty damn original.”

She laughed. “I don’t mean that kind of original. That’s not art.”