Page 39 of Burning Daylight

She’s chaos and comfort. A contradiction I want to memorialize as the perfect piece of art.

I pick up my pencil, open to a blank page, and start to draw.

10

JULIETTE

This feels different than anything I’ve ever experienced.

It feels reckless, and hot, and…kind of perfect.

I’ve never been so vulnerable in front of anyone, and with every stroke of his pencil across the room, he strips away another piece of me, like I’m naked in front of him, showcasing my biggest insecurities all without saying a word.

I’m not sure how long it’s been since there’s no visible clock from this vantage point, and I’m afraid to move.

Instead, I just soak him in.

The way his brows dip in concentration, or how his jaw flexes when he tilts his head, his eyes ignited with the darkest kind of fire as he places them on different parts of me and then lowers them to the page.

His sketchbook rests on his leg, one ankle slung over his opposite knee, and the tattoos on his arms flex with every stroke of his pencil.

A lock of hair falls over his forehead, and he absentmindedly brushes it back, his tongue swiping against his bottom lip.

Fire scorches up my spine, arousal pouring through me until I’m drunk on it.

His dark gaze flicks up to mine. “You okay?”

The way he says it—low, rough, and raspy—sends a jolt between my legs. My thighs tense at his tone, heat curling low in my stomach, and the selfish part of me hopes he’s just as affected by me as I am by him.

“Fine,” I reply, but it comes out as a whisper.

“Try not to move,” he instructs again.

“Sorry.”

A small grin tilts his lips as he continues to sketch. “For a girl who doesn’t like to apologize, you sure do it a lot.”

“I never said I didn’t like to.”

“Call it an educated guess.”

I swallow. “I don’t mind apologizing to people who deserve it.”

He stills for half a second, then his pencil moves again.

“Sorry,” I say again. “Am I not supposed to talk?”

“I like your voice.” He smiles. “It’d be a shame not to hear it.”

My stomach flips, butterflies soaring back to life, and just like it always does, it puts me on edge.

“You flirt with me like this, but you don’t evenknowme,” I mutter. “Is this your thing? This blanket charm with every girl who stumbles through your door?”

“You didn’t exactly stumble.” He looks up, amused. “You stalked; let’s not rewrite history.”

I give him a look.

“Besides, I know about you,” he continues, his tone more serious.