Page 37 of Scrap Metal & Love Reforged

Seth stuck out his tongue. “Onething,” he said, “I can’t be gorgeous, rich,anda natural-born artist. That wouldn’t be fair; you know.”

“You’re absolutely right,” I said. “So what do you like about acting?”

“The fantasy,” Seth replied. “Being someone else for a while. Being part of something bigger. On set, it feels like family—at least it did on Brandon's film.”

I remembered meeting all of them: Brandon, Alex, Bioncia, and the others. They really had seemed like family together, and I could definitely see the appeal in something like that.

“What do you like about mechanics?” Seth asked.

“It pays the bills,” I replied.

“But there must be more to it, after all those years learning your craft.”

“Is mechanics an art?”

I pulled a Renaissance costume from a rack.Thatwas art, the way the fabric had been pieced so neatly together and how elegantly it was embroidered.

And my junk assemblage was art—competition or not. The shop wasn't. It was just a job, a stand-in for what I reallywanted.

“I think so,” Seth replied. “Anything you pour time and effort into can be art, and you’re as patient with cars as any sculptor.”

I set the garment back and smiled. “It doesn’t feel like that. It feels like scraping to make ends—stuck in a hole I can't dig out of long enough to focus on what I want.”

“Someday you will,” Seth said. “You've got more drive than anyone I've met. If anyone deserves to succeed, it's you, Troy.”

He said it as if it was the easiest, most obvious thing in the world. “You flatter me too much. You know that, don’t you?”

Seth laughed. “I’ve found that flattery is an integral part of pursuing any relationship.”

But what an uneven relationship it was. My heart fluttered at his words; heat rushed through me. I thought of kissing him, of the night we'd already shared, and how good it had felt—like being in his apartment.

Staying with him would be fine—if my pride allowed it.

“How many times have you used that line?” I asked, trying to sound flirtatious for the first time in ages.

“Only twice,” Seth said. “Once on my reflection only to test if it sounded charming or lecherous—and just now, on you.”

“So, I get the custom lines, huh?”

Seth laughed and flopped into an overstuffed velvet chair in front of a fake fireplace and faux bear rug. “Of course. Surely you think you’re worthy of fresh material. Although given your penchant for junk assemblage, maybe recyclingwouldwin you over.”

I dragged over a wooden stool and sat. This studio felt more like Seth than his apartment did. It was bright and cluttered, like he was.

“I'll take new material,” I said.

Seth grinned. “Noted. I’ll start right away, writing down my lines and cutting the bad ones. Process of elimination so you only get the best.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

It was an open invitation. My pulse kicked. No one would notice if his flirting edged past friendly. After all, he was flirty by nature.

Endearing. Attractive.

And I liked the attention. It had been a long time since anyone gave me this kind of—romantic—attention, even if that was partly on me.

“How many relationships have you been in?” I asked.

Seth tipped his head against the back of the chair. “God, do you want an exact number on that? Or just a rough estimate?”