I clear my throat. Loudly. He meets my gaze, sees the murder I’m glaring at him, then looks away.

Bea pokes me gently in the side.

“What?” I snap.

She lifts her phone and takes a picture, then turns and shows me the screen. “Look at that and tell me you’re not stuffy?”

“That is grumpiness,” I tell her. “It’s different.”

“Oh really? You’re not jealous, are you, James? May I remind you that you are on a fake date with your fake girlfriend?”

“You mean the one whose clothes I tore off last Friday, then brought to a stunning orgasm?”

Her jaw drops.

Mine does, too.

“Excuse me?” she whispers. “If you have something to say, James, then say it.”

“Fine, Beatrice, I think I will. Why have we barely talked in the past five days? Why, after we came together, cleaned each other, and put on our clothes, then you curled up in my arms, why did I wake up alone?”

Bea blinks at me. “I . . . I didn’t think you’d want me to stay.”

“Not want you to stay?” I hiss as Grace rambles on. “You think I’d do that with anyone on a Friday night, then kick them to the curb at God knows what hour of the morning?”

“I don’t know,” she snaps back. “You didn’t exactly make yourself clear.”

“What wasn’t clear about holding you in my arms and kissing you until we fell asleep?”

Her cheeks turn pink. “I didn’t know what that meant, okay, Jamie? We were both a little slaphappy. One thing led to another. It was impulsive, and you are a lot of things, sir, but impulsive is not one of them. I had no idea how you’d feel in the morning, and I was not waking up in your arms, risking the sight of anything close to regret.”

“Bea.” I swallow roughly. “I would never regret that.”

She seems stunned by this. “You wouldn’t?”

“I wouldn’t and I didn’t.” Leaning closer, I lower my voice. “Did you regret it?”

Her eyes drift to my mouth. She bites her lip. “No. I didn’t.”

“And you’re not upset?”

“Jamie, no. I . . . I thought you would be.”

“Well, I’m not,” I tell her, failing to hide how offensive that assumption is.

“Um . . .” She swallows nervously. “Okay. Good.”

I nod. “Good.”

The air between us thickens with silence.

“Are we following?” Grace calls.

Bea and I snap upright, spin on our stools in tandem, then face forward. I adjust my canvas. Bea fiddles with her paintbrushes and zones out as Grace demonstrates building our palettes by blending colors.

“Beatrice, aren’t you going to follow directions?” I ask.

She drops the paintbrush and gives me a nonplussed look. “I think my humble background in studio arts will see me through on the basics of color theory.”

“Ooh, now who’s stuffy?”

She gasps. “Am not!”