My heart rate jumped at the increased intimacy with this man I’d just met, but he didn’t seem put off by the familiarity of my touch. He tilted his head into my hand, his eyelids sliding closed and a slow breath escaping his lips.
“So unexpected,” he said, seeming to vibrate like a contented cat while I petted him.
“But in a good way, yeah?” I watched his face as I combed my fingers through his hair, sliding to the back of his head. My mouth began to water when my gaze fell on his lips, a perfect full bow of lusciousness.
“The best. So good—”
I cut him off with a kiss, giving in to the craving to feel his lips against mine. My fingers tightened at the back of his head, and he responded by pulling me tighter, humming as my lips merged with his. They were as soft and warm as they’d looked, and he kissed me back with the same tentative gentleness, as if neither of us wanted to reveal the core of our desire too quickly.
Inside, I was on fire, but I understood the way fire worked, so I pulled back. I didn’t want to burn too hot too soon and risk a shock if I found myself in the cold. That drastic a shift had been disastrous for enough of my pieces that I knew better. Burn too hot, and you could shatter with a breath.
I cleared my throat and reluctantly stepped away from him for the first time in what seemed like an eon. He looked flushed and bewildered, and I couldn’t help but smile.
“Gray, huh? Well, it’s nice to meet you. Gray the dragon.”
He cleared his throat, swallowed, and raked his hands through his hair, one hand lingering at the back where my hand had been a moment ago. A thoughtful look crossed his face, and he chuckled. “It’s Graziano. My full name, I mean. Graziano del Verrocchio.”
The name rolled off his tongue, the syllables shaped by a mouth whose native language was something other than English. It rang a bell deep in the back of my mind where I’d shoved all my art history courses from college.
“Verrocchio…like da Vinci’s teacher? Any relation?”
One dark eyebrow arched, and he smiled conspiratorially. “Maybe. I just go by Gray Verro now.”
“Then this must be fate.” I stuck my hand out to him. “April Vincent. Dad always insisted da Vinci was his ancestor. I have no issue claiming it even if he was full of shit.”
Gray’s throat rippled as he swallowed and extended his hand to grasp mine. I almost sighed again at the overwhelming sense of calm his touch transferred to me. God, he was like a drug.
“I’m sorry to say, da Vinci never had children, so your father is indeed full of shit. And I think Fate is busy at the moment, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t other forces at work. That I would meet you here today can’t be a coincidence.”
I waved a hand. “Psh. I’m always here. What brought you in? It’s actually not raining today, so it can’t be the weather.”
I didn’t miss the wary look over his shoulder toward the gallery entrance and his narrowed eyes. “I came to visit the school. They have an opening for an instructor I was hoping to apply for. But I had trouble finding parking any closer, and when I walked by, the pieces in the window caught my eye.”
“The school… You mean the glass school? Olympic Glass School?” My voice pitched higher than I intended. The gallery was only a block away from Olympic’s downtown office. Renee and Josh were students at the school, which was located about thirty miles outside the city in the midst of the lush Washington forest. My years there had been the most defining period of my life. “Are you a glassblower?”
“I’m a lot of things. My last job was more associated with music than art, but I’ve always been a craftsman. Since that job ended, I hoped to get reacquainted with my…um…” A pained look crossed his face that seemed completely incongruous to the sense of well-being his presence gave me. I frowned.
“Your roots?”
He exhaled softly, his eyes growing wet. “Yeah, my roots.”
“Is everything okay?”
“I’m not quite sure.” He gave me a perplexed look, then shook his head. “I came in because I was curious about those pieces in the window. They remind me of someone, and I wanted to find out who the artist was. But then I saw you back here communing with this painting, and I couldn’t help myself. It was like some force pushed me.” He glanced back at the door again, the wary look returning. “If there are fate hounds here, Deva has some explaining to do.”
I blinked, not sure what he meant, but there was one thing I could help him with, at least. “It’s me,” I said, grinning. When he just stared, I clarified. “The artist of those pieces? That would be me.” I slipped past him, heading toward the entrance and the display of mixed-media sculptures that filled the window.
There were four handblown glass sculptures, and they were each a study in one of the four seasons. I’d created them while I was in my incubating phase for the larger piece, which was a philosophical representation of the fragility of life and the strength we draw from the earth to survive.
When I reached the window display and stopped beside one of the pedestals, I looked back at Gray, who stood in the center of the gallery, his mouth hanging open.
“You’re the artist? I thought you were just a fellow lover of art who wandered in like me.”
“Nope. Well, I am a fellow lover of art, but I didn’t just wander in. I live here. Kind of literally.” I grimaced at the reminder. Venturing out of my cave and meeting him had been my first glimpse of the outside world in way too long. Ever since Dad’s visit, in fact. Christ, I lived practically behind the gallery in an apartment situated above the shop next door; had it been that long since I’d gone home? How did this beautiful man not get completely grossed out by having me rubbing all over him? I hadn’t showered in three days!
But he didn’t seem to care about my appearance. His attention shifted to the display as he walked toward me, and I took the opportunity to thoroughly check him out. His clothes weren’t form-fitting, but boy did he fill them out well. The strength of his chest and biceps were evident beneath the dark fleece, and he moved with easy grace uncommon in a man so big. If I hadn’t met him in an art gallery, I’d have pegged him as a lumberjack. Except his face was way too smooth and beardless, and frankly too pretty, which was a shame because I liked a beard as much as a clean-shaven man.
Still, I couldn’t deny the kiss we’d shared had lit something inside me, beard or no beard. I wasn’t about to let him slip away and was already mentally rehearsing ways to convince him to hang around and watch me work. Maybe I could offer him a tour of the Olympic campus this weekend if I managed to catch up on the project. I’d just have to find time for a quick shower first.
He passed between the Summer and the Autumn displays and turned, scanning all four slowly, his face alight with excitement. As his gaze moved, his eyes flickered again to the lighter color that practically seemed to glow. The aura I’d seen around him a moment ago swelled into being again, and time slowed down.
When he looked at me finally, it was with absolute wonder. I hazarded a glance over my shoulder, worried that expression couldn’t really be meant for me.
“April, you’re the artist of these amazing pieces?”