I head toward the back of the house and slip inside through the unlocked patio door, cursing under my breath at it being unlocked in the first place. Once I’m inside, I hear music drifting up from the staircase that leads to the lower level and can’t help but grin because, as it turns out, I know things about this woman. I know how her mind works, what makes her tick, and what would drag her out of bed in the middle of the night.
I know Anya.
Following the music, I head downstairs and find Anya in the studio she’s set up there. Her back is to me, brush in hand, as she works on a large canvas in front of her. She’s only half-dressed, wearing just my t-shirt and a pair of boy shorts, with her sandals kicked off to the side of the room.
She drags a long line of cool blue paint through the center of the canvas, then cocks her head to one side as she loads her brush again. This time, she uses a darker shade of blue, dragging it across the first color in a crisscross pattern. When the two colors blend together, the result is something cloudy and unsettled, like the skyline just before a late summer hailstorm.
She rises up on her tiptoes to reach the top of the canvas and my eyes drift up her body, beginning at her calves and moving up her thighs, then right up to the hem of my t-shirt. I drink in the sight, waiting for her to notice me while also hoping she won’t, at least not until I’ve gotten my fill of watching her.
With a few precise brushstrokes, she adds thin lines of bright red paint across the upper edge of the canvas, then feathers each one out with the tip of her brush, using sharp flicks of her wrist. With those few brushstrokes, everything about the painting changes, taking on a new dimension. I have no idea how it happens, but suddenly it’s full of life. It has a soul. A heartbeat.
“Jesus,” I mutter.
Anya whips her head around, letting out a little yelp as she does. When she realizes that it’s only me, she blows out a relieved breath and presses one hand to her chest. The brush she’s using is in the same hand though, so it bumps against my t-shirt, leaving behind a streak of red paint.
“You scared me,” she says. She drops her hand from her chest and then spots the paint, cursing under her breath. “Sorry. I borrowed your shirt but I was trying really hard to keep it clean, I swear.”
I grin. “Don’t worry about it. If I’m lucky, by the time you’re done I’ll own an Anya original. Maybe then I can sell it and retire on the proceeds.”
“I’m not sure that’s a sound retirement plan. Better keep funding your 401k, just in case.” She turns back to the canvas. “How did you know where to find me?”
“Orgasms,” I say. “You mentioned before that they’re good for your creativity, so I had a hunch that you might be working off the good boning energy from earlier.”
She snorts. “If anyone asks about my creative inspirations, that’s what I’m going to tell them. That I’m fueled by ‘good boning energy.’” She laughs quietly and sighs. “You were zonked out when I left and I didn’t want to wake you up just to explain that the muse is calling. We can’t have you groggy if you happen to get called into work or something. I want you on your toes whenever there are bad guys involved.”
I swallow thickly. Just like it did earlier tonight, hearing her say that my job makes her nervous hits me hard, right in the center of my chest—but in a good way. Hell, even talking to her about Nicole felt good. I wanted her to know everything and, for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t worried about how my failures might look to someone. I just wanted Anya to know me and I wanted to know her. I’m still not sure how to tell her that, and I’m definitely not ready to go there tonight. Tonight, the only thing I want to do is savor being here in her work space, watching her do what she does.
“Do you mind if I stay? Watch you work for a little while?”
She sends me a curious look from over her shoulder, searching my face for a beat. Then she turns back to the canvas.
“I don’t mind. It’s nice to have company sometimes.”
There’s a worn-out futon against the wall, something that looks like it's the property of the Greenes’ cat, but I take a seat on it and watch Anya work steadily until she finally sets her brush down and steps back. She rolls her shoulders and tilts her head from side to side, releasing a long, slow exhale.
After a few more stretches, she comes over and sits down between my legs, relaxing her body into mine. I run my hands up her arms to her shoulders, kneading her knotted-up muscles until she groans quietly. I continue massaging even as I stare at the canvas she was working on. Finally, I work up the courage to ask more, and clear my throat quietly.
“I hope this question doesn’t piss you off, but is that painting you were just working on finished? No offense, but I can’t tell.”
“I don’t think so. I got out what I needed to say for tonight, but I think there’s more there. I just don’t know what it is yet.” She nudges her chin toward a row of canvases leaning against the wall. “Some of those were done in one sitting, others took weeks to finish. You never know, until you know—if that makes any sense.”
Since it doesn’t make sense to someone like me, I ask her about the other paintings, thinking that might help me understand better. Anya goes through each one, explaining what she’d been hoping to create, and what she’d been feeling at the time. I study each one as she talks, trying to figure out if I can see what she’s telling me, or somehow see the emotions she says she had at the time. And fuck me, but when I really look, I can. Each painting has its own glow, or some little part of Anya’s energy embedded in it. She’s a part of every single one and I swear I can feel that when I’m looking at them.
I let out a soft snort, thrown by the idea that I’m having these thoughts at all. Me—Jericho Truman Seamus Roan Maxwell, former Marine, US Marshal, and all-around no bullshit kind of guy—having a fucking moment over abstract art. Anya twists a little to see my face and raises a brow.
“I think I’m actually starting to get it,” I say sheepishly. “You know, art.”
A soft smile curves across Anya’s mouth. In her eyes, there’s affection and approval, the likes of which I haven’t seen from a woman in a very long time. Then she whispers that she’s glad I came to find her tonight.
I drop a kiss to her forehead, keeping my thoughts to myself.
She doesn’t need to know—at least, not yet—that I’m probably the one who should be thanking her.
For finding me.
14
Anya
In the morning, during the hazy moments between awake and asleep, I have one thought.
This is the best dream.
Either that or I’ve been magically transported to a fantasy day spa, and I’m being attended to by a man with strong, warm hands who knows everything about my body. And that guy is well on his way to earning a very big tip.
I’m sprawled out on my belly with my face half-buried in a pillow, and the bedsheets smell like JT’s body wash, which only makes this situation even more enjoyable. As my dream massage therapist works his hands up my bare back, he kneads gently along each side of my spine with slow rhythmic strokes that make every inch of my tired muscles relax. He reaches my shoulders, working those aching tendons into submission before giving my neck some attention. Then his hands drift down my sides, teasing the sensitive skin near my breasts in a way that would be totally inappropriate if this really were a day spa. But since it’s not, I can just enjoy what JT’s giving me without worrying about anything else.