“Juuuuules.” I’m that kid wailing in the grocery store. All I need is a smear of chocolate chip cookie on my cheek, a rogue untied shoelace, and I am typecast.

“BeeBee,” she singsongs back, glancing my way and failing to hide how disturbing she finds my papier-mâché crab mask. She tugs it up off my face and nestles it into my hair. I tug it back down. She tugs it back up.

I glare at her as I tug it back down again. “Lay off the mask.”

“Aw, c’mon. Don’t you think it’s time to come out of your shell?”

“Nope, not even for that dad-level pun.”

She sighs wearily. “At least you’re wearing a hot dress—oops, hold on.” We stop at the bottom of the steps before she yanks me behind the banister.

“What?” I ask. “You’re letting me go?”

“You wish.” Jules cocks a smooth dark eyebrow as her gaze dips to my dress. “Wardrobe malfunction.”

When I peer down, I see my dress gaping along my ribs. Thank you, universe! “Pretty sure it’s busted. I should go check it out in the bathroom.”

“So you can hide again? I don’t think so.” She slides the zipper up my ribs, the sound of my fate being sealed.

“It could be on its last little zippery legs. Shouldn’t chance it. A boob might pop out!”

“Uh-huh.” Clasping my hand, Jules launches me forward. I’m a meteor hurtling toward catastrophe. As we approach our destination, sweat breaks out on my skin.

I recognize her boyfriend, Jean-Claude, and Christopher, next-door neighbor, childhood friend, surrogate brother. But the third man, who stands with his back to us, a head above them, is a stranger—a tall, trim silhouette of dark blond waves and a smart charcoal suit. The man turns slightly as Jean-Claude speaks to him, revealing a quarter of his profile and the fact that he wears tortoiseshell glasses. A molten ribbon of longing unfurls inside me, curling toward my fingertips.

Distracted by that, I catch my toe on the carpet. I’m saved from a face-plant only because Jules, who’s used to my body’s abysmal proprioception, grips my elbow hard enough to keep me upright.

“Told you,” she says smugly.

I’m staring at a work of art. No. Worse. I’m staring at someone I want to make a work of art. My hands crumple around the fabric of my dress. For the first time in ages, I ache for my oil paints, the cool polished wood of my favorite brush.

My artist’s gaze feasts on him. Impeccably tailored clothes reveal the breadth of his shoulders, the long line of his legs. This man has a body. He’s the jock of your dreams who forgot his contact lenses and had to wear his backup glasses. The ones he wears at night when he reads in bed.

Naked.