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“I think Mugsy’s group tolerated me because she made them, even though I was a few years younger. I didn’t really have many friends of my own.”

“Nothing wrong with being selective.”

“When I say I didn’t have many friends, I really mean any. Except Mugsy. And my parents paid her to hang out with me.”

It almost sounded like a joke, but Jean could hear him frowning. Setting down her brush, she walked around the bed and crouched in front of him until they were at eye level.

“That sounds difficult,” she said, patting his forearm. “And I know childhood wounds can cast a long shadow. But there’s something important I want you to remember.”

“What’s that?”

She lowered her voice to a tender whisper. “We were talking about my art , Charlie. Way to hijack the conversation.”

Jean watched him go from startled to amused. After kissing the last trace of worry from between his brows, she returned to her spot on the bed and picked up her brush.

“I assume they’re not still paying her?” Although a lot of grown men would probably benefit from hiring a professional sitter, instead of outsourcing those tasks to their wives or girlfriends.

“No.” He paused to consider. “Not for that, anyway. She does work for them.”

Before Jean could ask about the family business, he was back to running himself down.

“It doesn’t really change the fact that I’m not good with people, like you. I bet you can talk to anyone.”

“Eh. It’s probably good there aren’t more people like me.

For the fate of the world.” She worked a darker blue into the sky between his shoulder blades, shading it toward evening.

“So what did you tell your friend? That you met a rude hotel employee who barged in on you naked and now she won’t leave you alone? ”

“I said that I met someone interesting and smart and beautiful.”

Jean waited for the punchline, but apparently that really was how Charlie saw her. She could have joked about getting his prescription checked but found she didn’t mind having one person in the world who thought she was all that.

“And what did she say?”

“That I should run a background check.”

Jean barked a laugh.

“She thinks I’m too trusting,” Charlie confided.

“Well, she’s not wrong. We barely know each other and you’re letting me cover half your body in permanent ink. I hope you like My Little Ponies.”

“It’s permanent?”

“Got you.” She tickled the inside of his thigh. It was like taking candy from a baby. Only not her baby. In the ooh-baby sense. Obviously.

Either he wasn’t listening or didn’t find it funny, because his only response was a thoughtful silence.

“Is it about the ponies? Because I made that up too.” Taking hold of his calf, she wiggled his leg back and forth. “Still with me, Dakota?”

“You know how people say things that get stuck under your skin, and you can never get them out? It seeps into your veins, like venom.” He slid her a doubtful look. “That probably doesn’t happen to you.”

“I too have experienced human emotions,” she assured him. “Now, what is it?”

“Someone told me I was creepy for liking snakes. Because a normal person would be grossed out.”

She white-knuckled the paintbrush. Where did these basement dwellers get off trying to bring a unicorn like Charlie down to their level?

Jean liked her people the same way she liked her paintings: full of unexpected twists.

A hot science nerd with a tender oddball core, for example. Charlie was a bonbon of a person.

“Screw the haters. Those are the same jerkwads who are all, ‘I didn’t even want to take a bite of that apple. It’s that woman’s fault.

I’m more of a lean protein guy.’ Like okay, bro.

Who was your scapegoat last year?” Leaning forward, she kissed the side of his shoulder she had yet to paint.

“For the record, you’re not a snake, you’re a snack. ”

“A snack,” he repeated, bemused.

“ And a living breathing work of art.” She cocked her head, considering the long slope of his back and slender hips, not to mention the perfect peach of a rear end. He probably looked great in jeans. It was a little backwards that she’d mostly seen him pantsless, but Jean wasn’t going to complain.

“Does it look cool? Can I see it?”

“What, the painting? Yeah, that isn’t bad either.”

He started to move, but Jean held him in place with a hand to the back of his thigh. “Let me take a picture so you can get the full effect.” She brought him his phone, holding it to his face to unlock. “This way you don’t have to worry about me posting nudes of you all over the internet.”

His face paled. That was probably the ultimate nightmare for someone as reserved as Charlie.

“Which I would never do,” she said. “Revenge, sure. Porn, not so much.”

Standing on the mattress, she snapped a series of shots, first full-length and then close-up, so he could appreciate her detail work.

He propped himself on his elbows to study the images, flicking through them so slowly Jean had to clench her fists to keep from shaking him and saying, well? Is it awesome or what?

“This is—” He broke off, staring at the screen.

“It’s a garden,” she explained. “But a jungly one, with extra snakes.”

“Is that a bed?”

“Mm-hmm. Why should they only be for bedrooms? When you think about it, most spaces would be improved by adding a bed.”

“That’s true. Better than putting a bathtub in your yard.” He zoomed in on the next pictures. “Is that you?”

“Yeah.”

“And I’m there too.”

She nodded.

“It’s incredible.” He twisted to look at her. “That’s what I was going to say before.”

“Oh.”

“I could tell what it was. I just can’t believe you painted all that—on me .”

“You’re like a mullet. Business in front, party in the back.” She knelt beside him, looking over his shoulder at the image he was still studying. “Don’t feel like you have to stop saying nice things.”

“I wish it was permanent. Do you think I can just shower my front half, to make it last longer?”

“You’d probably need help. Okay fine, I’ll give you a sponge bath.”

“Should I sleep on my stomach, so it won’t smudge?”

“I think you should enjoy it in the moment and not worry about tomorrow. That’s part of the fun.”

“So if I want to keep it there’s no way to make it last?”

Jean figured the odds were about fifty-fifty they were still talking about his body art. “Did I mention the paint is edible? Maybe you should do me next.”

His expression was torn. Sexy arts ’n’ crafts or real talk? Jean knew which one she’d prefer. She had no problem speaking her mind; it was the heart she tried to avoid.

Climbing onto the low dresser, she made a V with her knees, crooking a finger at him. “Get over here, pretty boy.” She gave him her best come-hither look. “I promise not to mess up your paint.”

“Jean.”

“I know. I’m a terrible influence. The formal apology is in the mail.”

He moved toward her, fighting a losing battle against the smile that was trying to break free.

The sweetness of his expression, with that lock of dark hair falling over his forehead, undid her almost as much as the grip of his hands on her thighs as he positioned himself in front of her.

For all his gentleness, Charlie was the sharp end of a knife pointed directly at Jean’s hidden weak spots.

She wasn’t scared of him exactly, because Jean laughed in the face of danger. But it did feel like an opportune moment to test her deflector shields.

“Listen.” Jean pressed a hand to his chest before he could get any closer. “We’re just having fun, right?”

He looked like he wanted to argue.

“We don’t have to talk about it. This is me telling you not to develop unrealistic expectations. Don’t put too much faith in me, because I’m not the most reliable person in the world.” And I don’t want to disappoint you . She kept that part to herself.

His palms moved up and down her thighs. Jean wasn’t sure which of them he was soothing. After a long, thinking silence, he presented his counterargument.

“Would an unreliable person tell me not to trust them?”

That took the wind out of her sails. Jean’s mouth worked, her usual glibness failing. “Actually,” she started to say, but he shook his head.

“I love that you don’t treat me like a child. Or act like there’s something wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you.” She pulled him closer, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Except that you have unusually excellent taste in women.”

He looked down, brow creased. “Do you think I like you too much? More than you like me.”

“Little do you know, I’m only pretending not to be gaga for you.

” Shit . Where had that come from? “I mean, I don’t put my art on just anyone.

They have to be sexy as hell.” Jean hadn’t shifted gears that roughly since her first time driving a stick—no pun intended—but Charlie didn’t call her on it.

“Jean,” he said, shaking his head.

There was the blush she loved. Liked . She liked his blush. Dammit .