“It’s not exactly what I had in mind,” I mutter, and I can feel myself growing hot with mortification as he comes to stand behind me. The painting on my easel is absolutely horrible, and it’s still the best I could do. Being terrible at something in front of him makes me feel vulnerable and I think that if he makes fun of me now I won’t be able to forgive him.

“You’ve got the perspective wrong.” Ben’s voice comes from behind me. Much to my relief, he doesn’t sound mocking. His voice is measured and he’s standing so close that I can feel the heat from his body on my back. “You need to shorten that line there.” He leans forward, pointing at one of my wobbly orange lines and his arm brushes mine. “And this is closer, you see? So you need to lengthen it.” He takes the brush from my hand and makes some quick alterations. It’s still a terrible mess, but at least that one corner looks better.

I sigh. “You make that look easy. Why couldn’t I see it?”

“You’ll get there. It takes practice.”

“Which I definitely need,” I say glumly.

“Mmmm,” Ben murmurs, surprisingly diplomatic for once. “It can’t hurt. Now, you try with this corner here.”

Trying to remember his advice I make some awkward alterations. It’s better, but not right.

“Almost,” he says, and again he points to the different lines, helping me to see the changes that need making.

A lock of my hair comes loose again, and I swipe irritably at it with paint-stained fingers.

“Here,” he says. “Let me get that for you.”

As though it’s happening in slow motion, I feel his fingers as they skim lightly across my forehead, and then down the side of my neck, and it is as if a trail of sparks follows the path they take, my skin crackling under his touch. My mouth goes dry and my mind empties as I stare up at him, for once lost for words.

Ben’s own pupils are wide and he holds my gaze for a moment before clearing his throat. “You’re getting paint all over yourself,” he says finally, taking my hand in his own and holding it up in front of me so that I can see.

“Oh,” I manage, staring at my hand as though I’ve never seen it before, completely thrown by my reaction to his touch. His fingers are wrapped around my wrist, his grip gentle, his hands warm.

“We might have to get you some overalls. Don’t want to get those new clothes dirty.” He releases my wrist and takes a step back, putting some much-needed distance between us, allowing the air to rush back into my lungs. “Especially if you’re going to end every lesson looking like you’ve rolled around in the paints.”