Page 31 of Painted in Love

He tapped in an order for the best Japanese restaurant he knew, and since he was a frequent patron, their order arrived before they could truly get back into their negotiations. He locked the door behind the delivery person so they wouldn’t be disturbed while they were eating.

Saskia followed him to the kitchen counter, taking a seat at the breakfast bar. “Wow, that smells good.” Closing her eyes, she breathed in, and he had the urge to kiss her right then.

But they were still negotiating. Kissing would come later.

Popping the caps on two bottles, he poured the beer into clear mugs and slid one to her. With the first sip, she moaned, the sound sexy enough to break his concentration on everything but getting her into his bed.

Eyes closed as if it helped her savor the drink, she said, “That’s the best beer I’ve ever tasted.”

“It’s Japanese. It suits the meal.” The blissful look on her face suited her. He’d experienced her bliss last night, and he wanted it again. When his lips were on her.

They dug into the meal with chopsticks, dining on sushi, shrimp tempura, sukiyaki, and yakitori, skewered chicken. She moaned over every bite as if she hadn’t eaten since that hamburger they’d shared last night.

Did she have any idea what she was doing to him?

Maybe she wanted to drive him crazy.

Once they were done, they closed up the leftovers and put them in the fridge, working together companionably. Then Clay led her back to the sofa, where this time he made sure they sat a little closer.

They didn’t talk about the mural or San Holo. Instead, she got him to talk about himself, the warehouses, Art Space. Which meant he didn’t stop talking. He loved bringing artists into the fold, actively searching them out. He encouraged, supported, showed their art, helped them make a name for themselves. They could put their art on his platform and be assured no one would harangue them. That was his specialty—making sure artists had a safe place for their endeavors.

But enough about him. He wanted to know everything about her. “What you do when you’re not working for San Holo or dodging robotaxis?”

She laughed at the reminder. “There’s not much to tell. The most interesting thing that ever happened to me was when a kind gentleman rescued me from certain death by a driverless taxi, shared a couple of drinks with me, and then…” She winked at him.

It was the and then that got him. He had to suppress a quake of desire. But she hadn’t told him a thing about herself, except yesterday in the bar when she’d talked about trust. Clearly, she didn’t want to reveal anything.

Still, he had to ask, “Why are you so wary of me? I mean, you haven’t even told me where you live.”

“I’m not hiding anything. I live in the Haight.” She licked her lips as if suddenly nervous. “I’ve had some bad interactions with male artists and agents and buyers. They’ve colored my view of everyone in the art world.” She smiled. “Adrian has proven herself to me one hundred percent.” Then she added, “So has San Holo.”

“Come on,” he cajoled. “You get that I’m a good guy, right?”

Her mouth quirked in an almost smile. “While there are definitely things you’re very good at—” She raised an eyebrow indicating exactly what those things were. “—the jury is still out on the rest.”

Oh baby, he thought, I’m going to show you just how good I can be everywhere—in bed, as well as out of it.

Clay Harrington was too intuitive. He’d immediately caught on to how suspicious she was of him. Coupled with the fact that he both lived and worked in the warehouse, how on earth would she keep her identity secret from him? But there was something about him that rang true. She was close to believing he wouldn’t unmask San Holo unless she wanted him to. So many people had said so many amazing things about him. He couldn’t pull the wool over their eyes all at once, and certainly not Dylan’s. Being a foster kid, he would see through any façade people threw up around him.

The truth was, she wanted to believe.

Clay’s home was amazing, minimalist and luxurious at the same time. It felt like the man himself, with everything out in the open for all to see. Except the hidden corner of his bedroom.

Was there a hidden corner of the man as well?

He leaned forward, catching her gaze, his eyes penetrating. “Tell me about your art.”

Maybe the way to discover his hidden depths was to offer a bit of herself. Even if it was a mistake, she revealed something no one but Adrian knew. “My parents are painters.” She didn’t say they were both famous British classical artists revered all over the world. If she told him their names, he’d recognize them immediately. “They never felt I measured up.”

“Consequently, you felt you never measured up?” Oh yes, he was intuitive, drilling down into her words.

“They set the bar high,” she admitted, “making it difficult for me to ever climb over it.” She put out a hand, not quite touching him. “But I don’t want you to think I gave up art because of them. I can honestly judge my art very well for myself.”

She could judge her own art. She knew when she’d painted crap. And she painted over it immediately. But she also knew when she’d created something incredible. Her parents had been wrong about her.

Clay didn’t push for more, saying instead, “I have a friend whose parents didn’t appreciate his art either.” He paused long enough for her to recognize the pain in his words even before he added, “It didn’t end well.”

This time, she touched him, just her fingers on his forearm. “I’m sorry for your friend. It’s really hard.”

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