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“Of course I do.”

“So there’s nothing you can offer me that would make me want to share something so personal with you.”

“Personal? Drawings aren’t personal. They’re art.”

She snorted. “If that’s what you think, then you’ve been living under a rock.”

“Okay, convince me. How is art something personal? People share their art with everyone.”

Harley tapped her pencil against her lips, drawing his attention to their lush fullness. It was incredibly difficult to keep his thoughts from going to that place he’d insisted he couldn’t visit. They’d nearly kissed that one day when she’d stolen his book. She might not have been aware of it, but he’d been so tempted to pull her against him just so he could steal a kiss from those teasing lips.

She cocked her head, and the movement was enough to draw his gaze back to her eyes—those teasing eyes. Harley watched him, making him feel far more vulnerable than she had any right to do. “Art is like a window to the soul. People who create—it’s the way they share their feelings about the world around them. Think about it. Every big artist in history had something to teach us. It might have been about appreciating art in and of itself, or it might have been to demonstrate a deeper emotion like grieving, joy, triumph… lust.” Her eyes darted from his and she brushed her chin against her shoulder as she glanced toward the bookshelves. “You can’t tell me that there is even one author over there who isn’t teaching you who they are through their words.”

Mason followed her gaze but only briefly. “I doubt that some of those authors were thinking of the greater good when they wrote about outer space, interstellar wars, or different species found on various planets. All of that isn’t real.”

“You’re looking at it too literally, Mason. Those authors are creating a world for you and them to escape into. They’re discussing the philosophy of what might be out there. They’re teaching you how they feel about certain laws or rules that are, in their own right, archaic. Those books might not be paint flung on a canvas, but they’re still capable of teaching you something about their creator.”

“Name one.” Mason chuckled. “One author who was able to teach us something.”

“Jane Austen.”

“What?” He laughed. “Didn’t she just write about relationships?”

“She did, but there was a deeper meaning to it all. She pioneered a way for the narrator to find a voice. She wanted people to accept that while women were expected to be seen and not heard, they were, in fact, witty and independent thinkers. She might have just been a romance novelist, but what she contributed to literature was important.”

“I suppose you learned this in that fancy school of yours,” he said quietly.

“I had to take my share of literature courses. They were terribly boring. I preferred the time I got to spend behind an easel.”

The two of them continued to stare at one another long after Harley grew quiet. Mason never had the opportunities like she’d had. He often wondered what classes he might have chosen had he been able to attend. Thankfully, he’d never let his lack of opportunity stop him from learning what he wanted to.

Mason’s eyes dipped to the book again. “So you’re not going to show me even one picture?”

She picked up the book, fingering the edges thoughtfully. “I suppose I could show you one picture. But you have to tell me what it is about those sci-fi stories that makes you want to keep turning pages.”

He rolled his eyes. “Isn’t it obvious? They’re my escape. I never got to travel anywhere in my entire life. I will likely never see any place past Colorado Springs. I’m stuck in this snow globe of a town with nowhere to go. Wouldn’t you want to find a way to leave this place by any means necessary?”

“I don’t know. I think I’m growing to like it here.” She offered him a smile, one he recognized as being the only genuine smile she had. “Living out there in the big world isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Believe me. The work might be hard here, but it’s not so bad once you get used to it.”

His mouth fell open with his exaggerated response. “I don’t think you’d ever make it if a cult found you.”

Harley laughed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you were brainwashed far too easily. All they’d have to do is keep you hungry and tired, and you’d do their bidding.”

She let out a half-gasp, half-laugh and threw a pillow in his direction. He ducked, and it flew through the air until it landed with a thump on the floor. “Take that back,” she demanded.

“Nope. I’d rather not lie.”

Her mouth fell open. “You’re such a jerk!”

“A jerk who’s waiting to see what you’ve been doodling. Please tell me you aren’t doing that MASH thing.”

“MASH thing? You mean the little game where I predict who my husband will be and where we’ll live? That MASH thing?” Harley tossed her head back and laughed. “I can’t believe you even know what that is.”

“I have sisters,” he defended himself.

She shook her head in disbelief.