Page 22 of Dating His Brother

“Me? Paint?” she scoffed with a laugh. “No. Definitely not.” She continued looking around the room until her sights settled on the portrait of her I had done after we first met. “Is that…”

“It’s you. Go on. Take a look.”

She walked over, kneeled down in front of it, and squinted her eyes. “It doesn’t look anything like me.”

“Well, it must, because you recognized yourself in it.”

“No. No, this is no good.” She spun around on her heels, glaring at me. “You’ll have to do another one now that I’m actually here. Besides, if there’s anything I’m positive I can excel at…It’s modeling.”

“Don’t be so certain. Modeling is harder than most people realize.”

“I know what it entails,” she huffed. “You’re speaking to one of the prime contract models for Seventeen magazine, when I was in my teens anyway. I even had a spread in Teen Vogue.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” I teased. “I would have brought out a nicer bottle to serve such a prominent figure in the fashion and modeling world.”

She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “Ha, ha. Very funny. I’m serious. I want to pose for you.”

I considered it for a moment, taking a deep, slow breath. But there wasn’t much to think about. Izzy was right there—standing in front of me, asking to model for a painting. I couldn’t very well say no. It was all I had wanted from the moment I first laid eyes on her.

“Give me just a moment,” I said, setting myself to shuffling the room around.

I cleared out some open space by the window, positioning my easel and paints across from it. I pulled a velvet lounging chair over and draped a throw blanket over it.

“Have a seat,” I told her, once everything was ready.

She walked over and started to sit, but stopped suddenly. “Oh, my skirt. I don’t want to get paint all over your blanket and chair.”

“Look around,” I smirked. “There’s paint on everything I own.”

“Not huge red streaks like this would do, though. No, this won’t work.”

“What do you propose? I’m sorry to say I don’t think any of my pants would fit you.”

She chewed on her bottom lip, then walked over to her glass—tossing the rest of it back. “Can I have another?”

“Certainly.” I took the glass and returned to the kitchen, mixing her another whiskey and coke cocktail.

But I nearly dropped it to the ground when I turned around to see Isabella bending over, pulling the skirt from around her ankles. She stood again—skirtless, giving me a perfect view of her white lace panties.

I reluctantly looked away, trying to be chivalrous, and shielded my eyes. Even then I couldn’t stop my eyes from darting back every so often to steal small glances, no matter how hard I tried not to.

“You can…uh…cover your legs with the…the…the blanket, I—ahem—suppose,” I stammered.

But her face warmed with a coy smile as her fingers curled around the buttons of her matching white blouse. “What’s the matter, Dawson? Haven’t you ever painted a nude portrait before? Now give me my drink and let me finish undressing before I change my mind.”

12

Isabella

My heart pounded and my fingers trembled as I unbuttoned my blouse. What the hell was I doing stripping down in front of him like this!? What was this—the freaking Titanic!? Jesus, his name was even Dawson. Didn’t Leo’s character in the Titanic have the last nameDawsonor something!? I was half-way convinced this was all some sort of weird lingering school girl fantasy about the film, but resisted the urge to sayPaint me like one of your French girls.

No, no, I assured myself. This was nothing like that, because it wasn’t sexual. Even though I had been soaking wet from the moment he grazed my ass to help me clean up the paint I sat in. That moment in itself was a shock to me.

I had never been shy. And no man had ever really made me nervous or thrown me off, especially someone like Dawson. Who, to my brother’s credit, was a certain type of guy. As in not the kind for me.

I started having flashbacks to my teenage antics when I’d flash lifeguards or take dares from my friends to skinny dip. All to have a little fun. I had always been restlessly chasing excitement in what could be a rather dull life at times. Exciting from the outside, maybe. But to someone living it—I was completely desensitized and underwhelmed by the extravagance.

So why was I a nervous, fumbling wreck? Even as I slid my panties down my legs and reached to unhook my bra, I stumbled a little by bumping into the edge of the lounge chair. I didn’t like Dawson’s presence having this suddenly disarming effect on me.

---