Suzanne blinked, surprised and humbled by the utter sincerity of his compliment. She had no idea he’d done more than give her paintings a cursory glance. But to see what he’d seen, he had to have looked closer.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice husky.

But she didn’t need him to tell her what she was painting was special. She’d known that from the very first brushstroke. It was going to be a keeper.

Even if the real Joshua Grady wasn’t.

…

For the next few hours, she painted and they talked. Not about anything deep or meaningful, just daily life kinda stuff. He told her about a typical day for him, and she told him about a typical day for her. Grady made coffee and fixed them baked beans on toast by cooking the bread over the gas flame—all while naked. He kept the fire stoked and occasionally tried to convince her to let him take a peek at her progress, which she resisted.

Like her mother, she never showed anybody her art before it was finished. The need to protect her process was paramount, and if she opened it up to opinion before it was done? Well, that could wreck her. It could certainly mess with her flow.

At one point, he asked if she would mind if he did some work on his laptop, and when she shook her head, he’d sat in the buff, the computer on top of the blanket and balanced on his outstretched thighs and did just that. “What are you working on?” she asked, her gaze firmly trained on the canvas as she added definition to his abdomen.

“Stock feed spreadsheets,” he murmured.

Suzanne glanced up to find his concentration wholly focused on the screen. She almost laughed. Could they be any different? She was painting a nude portrait of him, and Grady was looking at numbers. But there was a homeyness to the scenario that was appealing on a level Suzanne didn’t dare let herself explore. Normally she needed music, loud music, to be productive, but not today. Today the crackle of the fire, the dull rub of brush against canvas, and the tippy-tap of keys were totally doing it for her.

And the art was flowing.

After twenty minutes, he put the laptop aside and reached for the radio, squirming down onto his back again, bending his elbow and shoving his right hand behind his head to prop it a little as he turned it on. The static almost drowned out the voice broadcasting the progress of the storm.

“They’re still saying it’ll be midnight before it starts to ease,” he said.