“Please. I’m not being difficult. I have to—I’ll come right back. I just need to get something from my car.”

He stepped away from the canvas. Left a smudge on his forehead as he shoved a hand through his hair. “I’ll get it for you.”

“There’s a basket in my trunk. No, I need the box that’s with it. I need—We’ll go together.”

They ran across the catwalk, both of them on fire to get this done so they could return to what was essential. Her breath came in little gasps as she raced down the steps. She looked for the purse that held her keys but couldn’t find it.

“Why the hell did you lock your car!” he roared. “We’re in the middle of godforsaken nowhere!”

“I live in L.A.!” she shouted back.

“Here!” He snatched the purse from beneath one of the tables and began rummaging through it.

“Give it to me!” She grabbed it away and dug herself.

“Hurry up!” He seized her at the elbow, shoved her toward the front door and down the steps. On the way she found the keys. She broke away from him and flicked the remote that opened the trunk.

She nearly sobbed with relief as she grabbed her sewing basket and pushed the box of fabrics at him. He barely glanced at it.

They fled inside again, rushed up the stairs, raced across the catwalk. By the time they got to the studio, they were both struggling to breathe, more from emotion than exertion. She collapsed into the chair. He rushed toward the canvas. They gazed at each other. And both of them smiled.

It was an exquisite moment. One of perfect communication. He hadn’t questioned her urgency, hadn’t shown the slightest disdain when he’d seen it was only a woman’s sewing basket that had made her so frantic. Somehow he understood her need to create, just as she understood his.

Content, she bent to her work.

Gradually it grew dark outside. The studio’s interior lights came on, each one exquisitely placed to provide illumination without shadow. Her scissors snipped. Her needle flew in the broad basting stitches that would hold the fabric together until she could get to her sewing machine. Seam met seam. Colors blended. Patterns overlapped.

His fingers brushed her neck. She hadn’t realized he’d left his canvas. A streak of scarlet smeared his black silk shirt, and a smear of orange clung to his expensive slacks. His crisp, graying hair was rumpled, and more paint smudged his hairline.

Her skin prickled as he touched the top button on her gauzy, tangerine blouse. Gazing into her eyes, he slipped it free of its buttonhole. Then he opened the next one.

“Please,” he said.