“I like that, too,” he said, his gaze locked on hers. Her brown eyes met his, and she didn’t look away. Her lips parted ever so briefly, and she took a deep breath. Tension rolled through him as he held back, as he fought every instinct to step closer, to touch her cheek, her shoulder, to run his hand down her arm.
To learn more about her. He could see this playing out in his mind. They’d talk more, he’d ask her why she liked to draw, he’d learn more about this woman who already fascinated him. Then he’d thread his fingers through her hair, leaning in slowly, torturously close to her delicious earlobe. Her scent would fill his nostrils, the sweet, sexy smell of her citrus-y shampoo, and then her—her hair, her skin, her heat. He’d brush his lips gently against her neck, and she’d mold her body to his. He’d grasp her wrists, backing her up against the red cab of the truck, her h*ps jutting out invitingly. Kissing her more, exploring her mouth, her lips, her neck.
The air was so thick and heady, the desire for this moment to become more intense, that he had to recalibrate. He snapped out of the fantasy. Focus. She’s Travis’s sister. She’s the calendar photographer. She’s leaving town. She’s not the woman you were going to enjoy several more nights with.
“So,” he said, clearing his throat and tapping the side of the truck. “The calendar.”
She nodded several times. “Right. Right.”
She fixed her lips in a straight, sharp line and focused her attention on her camera bag, rooting around in a side pocket. She removed a notebook, flipped it open, and tapped the page. “I looked at the last few calendars, and I definitely think there’s some truth to the old adage ‘if it’s not broke, don’t fix it.’ And whatever you gentlemen did worked—women loved the calendar.”
“Yep. I wish I could take some of the credit, but I wasn’t even in last year’s.”
“That’s clearly going to change this year, and women are going to be very excited to get their hands on your picture.”
He laughed off the compliment. “I hardly think so.”
“Becker,” she said in a soft voice. “You’re the most beautiful man at this firehouse.”
His heart thumped harder, and so did other parts. “Thank you.”
“Of course, that’s purely my professional opinion as a photographer,” she quickly added.
“Professional or personal, I’ll take either one.”
“But I want to up the ante a bit with this year’s. I think there are a few more locations and looks we can try. I’d love to get some outdoor shots, not just ones Photoshopped with flames in the background, and maybe even do a little something with makeup, sort of makeup on the chest, to connote smoke. Let me show you,” she said, then grabbed her notebook and sank down to the concrete floor, cross-legged, and began sketching.
She stopped briefly to pat the floor, and he joined her, watching as her hand raced across the page. She’d sketched out what she’d just described. A rudimentary sketch, but even to his untrained eye, it was damn good.
“What do you think?”
“I think you can draw,” he said drily.
She rolled her eyes. “Thanks.”
“But seriously. You’re really good, and I also think that’s a great idea.”
“Cool. I just really want it to have that sexy look that women love, but also a very natural feel. Not just a posed beefcake style of shot. But something that feels more real.”
He nodded. “I’m good with that.”
She closed the sketchbook, and they discussed locations, plans, and dates for each guy for the next few weeks. When they were done, he asked her the question he most wanted to know.
“Why do you like to draw so much? Besides that you’re talented.”
“I’ve always done it,” she said, looking him in the eyes, her voice patently honest. “Ever since I was younger. Since my dad died. I think drawing helped me deal.”
Her directness floored him. He wasn’t used to that kind of openness. He didn’t talk that openly about loss. He didn’t even know how. So he did his best to respond in a way that was worthy. “Sort of like therapy?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “I was sad so much of the time, and drawing animals cheered me up.”
“Animals with jaunty hats?”
She bumped her shoulder against his, smiling. “In many cases, yes.” She pulled up the shirtsleeve, showing him her owl once more. “You asked about a deeper meaning. Here it is: this owl is for my father.”
“Can I?” he said, lifting his hand to her shoulder, as if the ink possessed some kind of magical power. Or maybe it was just the chance to touch her once more. He traced his fingertip over the ink, then swallowed thickly. She’d been honest with him; he could do the same for her. Besides, they were keeping a necessary physical distance, so they were safe to talk like this. “I’d love to hear the story.”
He heard footsteps on the stairs. One of the guys was on his way down, and that was his cue not to get any closer to Megan. The sound was a reminder of the promise he’d made to Travis.
“But I shouldn’t,” he added, crossing his arms as if that would distance himself from the pull he felt toward her. He didn’t want to be harsh, but being so close to her would only lead to trouble. “We shouldn’t,” he added in as cold a voice as he could muster.