I'd been so nervous about my first real assignment that I barely slept at all. By five o'clock, I'd known it was completely useless to stay in bed, so I'd gotten up and gone for a run. I wasn't a runner by nature, but it was as good a way as any to work off stress and clear my mind.

By the time I was showered and had gone through every outfit in my closet, and even a couple of Everett's shirts, my nerves were back, but they were at least manageable.

"I like it," Everett said as I walked into the kitchen. "But you might want to put on a bra under that shirt. Unless your plan is to let Jace Randell see your nipples on the first day."

I stopped, mouth hanging open, then ran into the bathroom. Shit. He was right. I'd forgotten to put on a bra, and this blouse was so thin that without it, my nipples would be pointing at everyone who saw me.

I was still flustered when I sat down at the table, and the fact that Everett was smirking didn't help matters much. I couldn't eat but a few bites no matter how delicious the French toast was that Everett had made.

"Don't you have to be at work soon?" I snapped, the words coming out harsher than I intended.

He kept grinning. "Day off."

I glared at him and managed to eat another bite of food. Everett already had his BS in applied physics, but was currently working on his Masters. He was also a maintenance worker in the NYU physics department, but I was fairly certain he spent most of his time flirting with any guy who caught his eye.

His antics, however, did manage to take the edge off my nerves, so as I got out of the cab on 69th Street, I finally felt like I could handle this. After all, I'd gone to school for this. A journalism degree from NYU with a minor in art history, all with the intention of becoming an art critic – every minute of study had been pointing toward this moment.

I'd worked my ass off on all the shitty assignments my boss gave me over the past eighteen months, pretty much all of which involved proofreading and fact gathering for the pretentious puff pieces he wrote. Through it all, I kept my eye on the prize. This prize.

I took a slow breath and made my way up the sidewalk. I'd been told to use a side door, so I bypassed the front and rang the doorbell. As I waited for someone to answer, I mentally prepared myself to meet the artist whose work had inspired my career.

I was a junior in high school when our art teacher had taken my class to Indianapolis to see a gallery his sister had just opened. In it, there were three pieces by a brand new artist. I must have stood there for two hours, looking at them in turn, and then back again. I'd written my senior thesis about them and gotten a near-perfect grade.

Then the door opened and...well, damn.

I'd seen pictures of him, but they'd clearly all been staged, because while he looked good in a suit and tie, this was clearly the true artist.

Ash blond hair possessed little streaks of maroon that matched the flecks on the tight black shirt that showed off the amazing definition his suit jackets had hidden. Jade green eyes and hints of tattoos peeked out from under his short sleeves. His long legs were covered by a pair of paint-stained jeans that I didn't even want to see from behind because I just knew they'd hug the tightest ass I'd ever seen.

"How much?"

My eyebrows shot up. Well, that was one way to keep me from ogling him. "Excuse me?"

He gave me an odd look and ran his hand through his hair, answering the question of how he'd gotten paint highlighted through the strands. "How much do I owe you?" His gaze darted down to my hands, then back up. "Did you forget the food?"

Now it was my turn to give him a strange look. "What are you talking about?"

His mouth curved into a half-smile. "You're not here to deliver my lunch, are you?"

I chuckled and tried to hide how thrown – and charmed – I was. "I think we have a miscommunication." I held out my hand. "I'm Savannah Birch, the reporter slash critic from The Heart of Art."

I silently congratulated myself for not making a face at the magazine's name. They hired me and a couple other writers in their early twenties to try to revitalize their image, but they still had a way to go.

His half-smile fell into a sardonic one as he reached out to clasp my hand. I swallowed a gasp at the heat and electricity that flowed out from where his skin touched mine. I mean, I knew he was hot. I had eyes. But that connection, it was beyond attraction. It was like an almost audible click.

"Come in," he said as he took a step back out of the doorway. "I was just getting ready to break for lunch."

As I stepped past him, I caught his scent – paint and soap and some underlying masculine smell that twisted primal things low in my stomach. Shit. I could get addicted to that.

"Sorry about how that sounded," he said. "Me asking how much. I promise that I meant it in the most innocent way possible."

With a voice like that, I doubted anything he ever said could be construed as innocent. I could get wet just listening to him read an owner's manual.

"A simple misunderstanding," I said with what I hoped was a professional smile. I definitely didn't want him to know how attractive I thought he was. The last thing I needed was my first relevant assignment to go up in smoke because I couldn't keep my hormones under control.

He was gorgeous. Big deal. I'd already prepared myself to deal with some level of hero worship. Some physical attraction on top of that shouldn't be an issue. I'd never let it be one before. I mean, my best friend was hot, and it'd never been an issue between us. Sure, he was gay, but plenty of straight women had crushes on gay guys.

That was what I needed to do. Pretend Jace was gay. Because then it wouldn't matter that his ass was even better than I thought it would be, or that I'd suddenly fixated on his hands. Those long, strong fingers. Fuck. I shivered at the thought of the things those fingers could do.

How they would feel on my body. Inside me. If they would caress my breasts or be rough and pinch my nipples until they throbbed. If he'd wrap those fingers around my wrists and hold them, restrain me...

Fuck.

I closed my eyes for a moment and ran through a list of my favorite artists by year and categorization. Anything that would keep me from thinking about what it would be like to have those artist's hands…

Shit.

"Ms. Birch? Are you all right?"

I opened my eyes and forced a smile as I turned. "I'm fine, thank you."

Before I could say anything else, the doorbell rang again.

"That probably is my food this time," he said as he stepped around me. "I'll be right back. Make yourself comfortable."

As he walked back the way we'd come, I forced myself to turn away before I could start picturing the way that ass would look bare. The muscles tensing as he pumped...

"Fuck," I muttered.

It shouldn't have been this difficult to get my mind out of the gutter. I'd never been a flighty person, distracted by a pretty face or a nice body. I was driven by my work.

And I didn't date artists. Hell, as long as I could help it, I didn't even fuck artists. Most creative people tended to be on the...temperamental side. Which meant emotional. Dramatic. Yes, passionate, but I had no problem giving up a bit of passion if it meant I didn't have to deal with any drama. Women generally had the reputation of being the ones who freaked out about sex, but I believed in equal opportunities for everyone when it came to making fools of themselves.

Which meant, when it came to sex, I drew a firm line in the sand, and I wasn't going to cross it.

Not even for someone as amazing as Jace Randell.