“Precisely. Now.” He taps the easel with his clean and dry paintbrush, because of course he tidied up after himself. “I’m ready. But if you’re not, that’s all right. I can wait. Or if you never want me to see yours, that’s all right, too. I didn’t mean for this to push you, Bea. I thought it would be something you’d find fun, not that I’m an expert at that, but—”

“Jamie.” I set down my brush, then cross the small space between our easels.

Slipping a finger beneath his chin, I tilt his face until his eyes meet mine. With him sitting on a stool, I’m taller than him for once, and I savor the fresh perspective it gives me. Light hits his cheekbones, the long, knife-blade line of his nose. That mouth that’s so often tight and serious parts softly as he looks at me.

“Thank you,” I tell him, sweeping my fingertips across the planes of his face.

He swallows roughly, eyes searching mine. “For what?”

I’m about to do something I shouldn’t. Blurring our boundaries, not knowing what Jamie thinks or wants from me. But if now’s my last chance to enjoy him like this, before he lets me down gently and we’re back to behaving ourselves, I’m taking my chance, dammit.

“For this,” I whisper, as I press a kiss to his temple. “For everything.” A kiss to the sharp jut of his Adam’s apple.

He exhales slowly as his hands settle on my hips. “Oh.”

“I’m ready now.” Pulling away, I force myself to let him go.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Stepping back, I reach for my canvas and take a deep breath. “On the count of three?”

He nods, lifting his canvas from its easel.

In unison, we count, “One. Two. Three.”

We flip our canvases, and as I stare at Jamie’s, a shiver dances down my spine. His is mostly black, speckled with tiny white dots—stars?—his best attempt at my face in profile, staring up at the sky.

“Bea,” Jamie says.

I tear my eyes from his painting and meet his gaze. “Yes?”

“This is . . .” He glances from my painting to me. “Incredible.”

I peer around the side of my canvas, analyzing my painting of Jamie how I first saw him, minus the lion mask—glancing just over his shoulder, eyes beautiful yet serious, the promise of a smile hidden in his stern expression. “Eh. I’m rusty. It’s nowhere near finished. But . . . it’s a decent likeness of you. That makes me happy.”

Jamie frowns at the canvas. “You really see me like that?”

“Like what?”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “It just feels like it’s a better version of me than I see.”

“James,” I sigh.

“Beatrice.”