And when the live subject was Rix . . . it seemed that all bets were off on my ability to concentrate. It took me forever to mix my paints. I agonized over how much and which shades, and could feel his stare resting on me like a heavy weight. “Nervous, duchess?” I dropped another tube of paint. Was that four times so far? “What gave it away?” “You’ve got nothing to prove. Just chill and do your thing.” Something about the sound of his voice and his words calmed my shaking hands. “Keep talking.” “’Bout what?” “Whatever you want,” I said, repositioning the canvas on my easel. I was ready to start. “Anything, actually.” “I don’t like you seeing that cop.” I stopped before my brush touched the canvas. “That’s what you want to talk about?” “You said anything. I’m going with that.” Rolling my eyes, I began to paint. “That’s not really your decision.” “Pisses me off, though. Knowing he can take you out to dinner, in public, and I can’t.
