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“What are you talking about, ’Cesca? If that contract is everything his assistant says, Noble’s giving you carte blanche. You don’t even have to show up and you get paid.”

She carried her plate over to the sink.

“Exactly,” she muttered, turning on the tap. “And Ian Noble knows perfectly well that making that offer is the one thing that will assure I show up and finish the project.”

Davie shoved his chair back to regard her. “You’re confusing me. Are you saying you were actually thinking about not finishing the painting?”

As she considered how to reply, Justin Maker staggered into the kitchen wearing a pair of sweatpants, his bare, golden torso gleaming in the sunlight, his green eyes puffy from lack of sleep.

“Coffee, stat,” he muttered in a roughened voice, whipping the cabinet open for a cup. Francesca gave Davie a pleading, apologetic glance, hoping he’d understand she didn’t want to continue the topic right now.

“Did you and Caden shut down McGill’s again last night?” she asked Justin wryly, referring to their favorite neighborhood bar. She handed the cream to her friend.

“No. We were home by one. But guess who’s playing at McGill’s Saturday night?” he asked Francesca, taking the cream she handed him. “The Run Around Band. Let’s all go. Poker night afterward.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve got a big project due Monday, and I’m not as proficient at the late-to-bed, early-to-rise routine as you and Caden are,” Francesca said as she started to walk out of the room.

“Come on, ’Cesca. It’ll be fun. All four of us haven’t gone out in a while,” Davie said, surprising her. Like Francesca, Davie’s proclivity for a wild night out had decreased considerably since they’d left Northwestern. The challenging arch of Davie’s eyebrows informed her that he thought a night out would encourage her to spill the beans about what was bothering her.

“I’ll think about it,” Francesca said before she left the kitchen.

But she didn’t. Her mind was already consumed with what she was going to say when she confronted Ian Noble.

* * *

Unfortunately, he wasn’t there when she arrived at the penthouse that afternoon. Not that she really expected him to be. He usually wasn’t. Undecided about what she should do in regard to that kiss, her commission—not to mention her entire future—she wandered into the room she was using as the studio.

Within five minutes, she was painting feverishly. Ian Noble hadn’t decided for her. Even Francesca herself hadn’t. The painting had. It’d gotten into her blood. She must finish it now.

She was lost in her work for hours, finally rising from her creative trance as the sun began to dip behind the high-rises.

Mrs. Hanson was whisking something in a bowl when Francesca staggered into the kitchen for some water. Ian’s kitchen reminded her of something one might find in an English country manor—huge, with every conceivable cooking implement ever created, but somehow still comfortable. She liked to sit in there and chat with Mrs. Hanson.

“You were so quiet, I didn’t realize you were here!” the friendly, elderly housekeeper exclaimed.

“I was working hard,” Francesca said, reaching for the handle of the enormous stainless-steel refrigerator. Mrs. Hanson had insisted since day one that Francesca make herself completely at home. The first time she’d opened the refrigerator, Francesca had exclaimed in surprise to see a whole shelf of bottled club sodas chilling, along with a china plate with sliced limes covered in plastic wrap. “Ian told me club soda with lime was your favorite drink. I hope this brand is all right,” Mrs. Hanson had replied anxiously to her exclamation.

Now every time she opened the refrigerator, Francesca felt that same rush of warmth she experienced that first time when she realized Ian had remembered her beverage preference and then made sure it was available to her while she worked.

Pitiful, she scolded herself as she withdrew a bottle.

“Would you like supper?” Mrs. Hanson asked. “Ian won’t want his for a while yet, but I could bang out something for you.”

“No, I’m not really hungry. Thank you, though.” She hesitated, but then blurted, “So Ian is in town? He’ll be home later?”

“Yes, he mentioned it this morning. He usually eats at eight thirty sharp, whether I’m cooking for him or he eats at the office. Ian likes his routine. He has ever since I knew him as a boy.”

Mrs. Hanson glanced up at her. “Why don’t you sit down there and keep me company for a bit. You look pale. You’ve been working too hard. I have some water on the boil. We’ll have a cup of tea.”

“Okay,” Francesca agreed, sinking into one of the stools next to the island. She suddenly felt weak with exhaustion now that her creative-inspired adrenaline rush was fading. Besides, she hadn’t slept well the past two nights.

“What was Ian like as a child?” Francesca couldn’t stop herself from asking.

“Oh, an older soul I’ve never seen in such a wee one’s eyes,” Mrs. Hanson replied with a sad smile. “Serious. Eerily smart. A little shy. Once he warmed up to you, as sweet and loyal as they come.”

Francesca tried to picture the somber, dark-haired, shy boy-Ian, her heart squeezing a little at the image her brain wrought.

“You seem a bit out of sorts,” the housekeeper consoled as she bustled about, pouring hot water into two cups and then arranging some items onto a silver platter: two scones, an exquisite silver spoon and knife, two crisp white cloth napkins, Devonshire cream, and jam dolloped into gorgeous china finger bowls. Nothing was ever done small in Ian Noble’s household, not even for a casual chat in the kitchen. “Isn’t your painting going well?”