“Did you pose me like Rose in retribution for my bad joke?” David shifted onto his side, unsure what to do with his hands as he lay on the couch. “Because if so, I should really take off this tee and put on an oversized heart necklace of some sort. Possibly one dredged from the bottom of the ocean.”

This was—both literally and figuratively—the most unprofessional position in which David had ever found himself. But at the moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when heat arced between him and Jenny with every glance. Not when she’d sacrificed her dreams and financial security for her ethics, despite her obvious frustration and fear. Not when he felt like a suffocating man gulping in lungfuls of oxygen for the first time in years.

He shouldn’t have said yes to her demand. But did he regret the answer?

Fuck, no.

He wanted more time with Jenny. He wanted more Jenny, period.

She was mixing different colors of paints in cups, her attention focused on her work. And she was mixing quickly, since—as she’d explained—acrylics dried way faster than oils. Still, at his comment, she glanced up at him with that broad smile stretching her adorable face.

“I wouldn’t object if you took off your shirt.” She waggled her eyebrows at him, confirming her status as an enticing adult Muppet once more. “But feel free to keep it on and position yourself however makes you comfortable. I was just fucking with you.”

With a sigh of relief, he propped himself up on his elbow and stopped trying to flutter his hands around his face or whatever she’d told him to do. “How did you choose those paint colors? As far as I know, I don’t have any turquoise patches.”

He’d changed out of his work shirt and into the fresh tee he’d packed for a gym stop that evening. It was gray. His pants were black, as was his hair. His skin and eyes were brown. Although he couldn’t claim any artistic ability, he didn’t see much need for the greens and blues and pinks and oranges she was mixing.

This time, she didn’t look up. “No one is just three or four hues, however rich and deep. There’s more to you than that.”

He swallowed over a dry throat. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe not.” She slayed him with a look, her characteristic smile vanished. “But I do.”

He wasn’t sure he agreed. Work consumed most of his waking hours, interrupted only by visits to the gym and the occasional trivia night at a bar with his colleagues. He ate alone. He slept alone. He dreamed about stories and sources and headlines.

At one time, he’d dreamed about flying and sex and winning an Olympic medal.

When had that changed?

“I read your story from a few years back about that cooking pageant in New York.” Dipping her brush into a cup, she eyed him for a moment before turning to the canvas on the easel. “Maybe not your most important work, but definitely your most fun.”

“The Mr. Molecular Gastronomy competition?” He huffed out an amused breath. “That was a hoot to report. I’d never seen so many handlebar mustaches in one place before.”

“I love that there was an anti-griddle round, as well as a sous vide-off for the finalists.” Her smile warmed her voice. “And that was one memorable swimsuit competition.”

“I worried about them putting dry ice and smoking guns so close to their Speedos, but the effect was truly impressive.” The memory, for good or ill, would remain seared in his brain forever. “So much dramatic fog as they strutted onto the stage and presented their various foams and gelées and tiny little passion fruit spheres to the judges.”

She snorted. “Based on the pictures in the article, I’m pretty sure some of them froze off their pubes. But at least they had tweezers handy for emergency medical intervention and/or microgreen placement.”

“More than their pubes.” He rested his head on his propped arm. “One guy fled the competition yelling, ‘My junk! Oh, God, my junk!’ But he recovered. Eventually.”

“Why don’t you write stories like that anymore?” Her brush dipped and lifted, dipped and lifted. “I haven’t seen a byline from you about anything or anyone other than Bigelow for months now.”

“I was randomly assigned to his campaign, back when no one expected him to outlast the primaries. And then…” David sighed. “He did. By that time, I was the expert on him and his inner circle, and I’d gotten good feedback on my reporting. So now I’m on the Bigelow beat for the foreseeable future.”

Bigelow’s orbit contained a variety of colorful individuals and scandals and astoundingly brazen and profane soundbites. All excellent story material. And God knew David’s stories about that constellation of potential criminals and would-be strongmen had raised his professional profile and earned the respect of his peers.

But the time and freedom to report less critical, less political stories had vanished along the way. Why hadn’t he mourned that loss before now?

“So that’s what you do for a living. What about your free time?” She chose a new brush, pink paint now splattered on her thumb. “Do you still train for all those decathlon events?”

He blinked. “You did your research.”

“Some of your first Google Image results showed you in college wearing tight, shiny shorts and basically doing a full split as you leaped over a hurdle. I mean…” She poked her head around the canvas. “I’m only human, David. I had to know more. And find multiple other images, just for the sake of thorough research.”

Oh, Jesus.

He closed his eyes for a moment. “Please tell me you didn’t find a photo of that meet where my shorts ripped.”

“If I decide to paint your butt, let’s just say you won’t have to pose.”

Nope. Not going to address that topic. “To answer your question, no, I don’t train for all those events anymore. When I go to the gym, I just run on the treadmill and lift some weights.”

“So the running parts were your favorite?” She settled behind her painting again. “I only run when two-for-one margarita night is about to end and I’m still in the parking lot.”

He hadn’t considered the issue for years, not since his long hours of work at the Chronicle had left him enough time for only the most basic physical training. “No. The high jump was my favorite.”

“But you don’t do that anymore.”

He recognized the studied neutrality in that voice. Understood it. God knew, he’d employed it often enough.

“No.” He shifted on the couch. “I don’t do that anymore.”

“Hmmm.” That was all she said.

Shit. Talking to sources and colleagues didn’t challenge him this way. Didn’t force him to review his life from a distance and take stock of what it had become, how it had narrowed and narrowed until he could barely move within its confines.

“I do trivia nights with my colleagues sometimes.” Did that sound defensive? It probably did. “I’m good at questions about ’90s movies and music.” He let out a slow breath and admitted the painful truth. “Largely because that’s the last time I watched movies and listened to music.”

He glanced down at the shiny fabric of the couch, plucking at the corded edge.

A long silence. Then she spoke again, her voice tentative in a way he hadn’t heard before. “My career tanked when gallery owners and potential buyers met me, rather than seeing my work on its own.”

That made no sense. “I’d have thought contact with you would sell hundreds of paintings. Thousands.”

On their own, those large-scale explosions of color she painted, those very personal depictions of men and women going about everyday tasks, should have attracted attention from buyers and exhibitors. But upon meeting her, how could a gallery owner or collector resist opening their walls and wallets to her work?

How could anyone resist her, period?

The movements of her arm slowed, then stopped. “Some people already dismissed my work because of my choice to use acrylics, instead of oils, and because I used such bright, cheerful colors. But my earlier paintings had more angst to them, because I thought serious, reputable art had to be grim. I think that helped offset the other factors, at least before everyone met me. So I got several group shows right out of college.”

When he’d researched her work and seen images from those exhibitions, he’d noted the unhappiness of her early subjects, the way their mouths pinched and their necks bowed. The expressions hadn’t fit what he now understood about Jenny, but what did he know about artists and how much their work reflected their personalities?

“At those exhibitions, I talked to influential people. Critics. Collectors. Gallery owners and museum curators. And I’m not…” She paused. “I’m not elegant. Or distant and unfathomable. Or angsty. I’m just me. And that hurt my career.”

“I don’t understand.” And he didn’t.

She thought for a minute before continuing, her bare, paint-stained toes tapping on the tarp beneath her. “People buy art or choose to display it in their museums and galleries for many reasons. The art itself, of course, and how it speaks to them. But also the sense that by purchasing or hanging that art, they’ve captured something ineffable, something important, something mysterious.”

Tap, tap, tap. Her toes weren’t following the rhythm of the music from the clock radio, though. Not anymore. Those movements were a small, telltale sign of distress.

She was speaking quietly now, her liveliness muted. “Some artists can cultivate that mystique, either by design or because they’re naturally reserved or beautiful or tragic. But I’m not a mystery, David. I contain no tragedy and very little angst. And I’m definitely effable.”

With effort, he stopped himself from agreeing that he found her extremely f-able.

“So given who I am and the materials and colors I use,” she continued, “my art didn’t seem important enough to buy or include in an exhibition. Or so I found out.”

He abandoned his pose, jerking upright. “People told you that?”

“Not directly. But my friends in the community reported what they heard to me. The bottom line was that once people met me, they didn’t take me or my art seriously.”

His hands fisted at his sides. “So what did you do?”

“For a while, I stopped attending openings or exhibitions, and it helped. I sold a few paintings, got a few more leads on exhibitions that might consider me. When my work was displayed, I sent friends to speak for me, ones who could cultivate their images better than I could.” Her big toe traced a line on the floor. “Better to imagine me a tormented recluse than someone who looks and acts like your niece who went to clown college and honks her nose and makes balloon parakeets at children’s parties.”

She paused. “That’s harder than it sounds, by the way.”

“Clown college?”

“Also the parakeets.”

He tried to smile, more to acknowledge her attempt at humor than out of any amusement. “A woman’s got to make a living somehow.”

Other than her feet, she hadn’t moved in minutes. She was hiding behind that canvas now. Not painting. Just shielding herself.

He’d never wanted to hold and comfort someone more. But she was still talking, and he refused to interrupt her story. Whatever she wanted to tell him, he wanted to hear.

“But I couldn’t hide forever. I didn’t want to hide forever. And I wanted my paintings to reflect my life and personality, so I switched to happier subjects. One of my friends lounging on the grass or reading a paperback or painting her toenails. I had one last exhibition.” She let out a long breath. “And that was the end of everything. The invitations to shows dried up, and the money I could expect for my paintings tanked. I had to move back home to Virginia and find other ways to make a living while I kept painting.”

He had the full picture now. Could summarize her tale in a pithy lede, if he so chose. “Thus clown college and your job inserting people into famous paintings.”

“Yep.” When she spoke next, he could barely hear her. “And this is it, David. After your story comes out, I can’t pretend I’ll be able to claw my way back into that world. Not ever. No matter how hard I try or how much I sacrifice.”

He couldn’t stand it anymore. Not the thought of her vibrant art remaining unappreciated forevermore. Not the resignation he could detect in every quiet word she spoke. Not the way she was hiding from him.

Without letting himself think about it, he rose to his feet and rounded the easel. She was still holding her brush, crusted with drying blue paint, and the canvas contained the barest hint of a man’s figure sprawled on a couch. Her shoulders were slumped, her eyes too shiny as they raised to him.

When she saw him coming toward her, her lips parted, and those blue eyes rounded. He took her hands and tugged her to her feet, heedless of the paint cups surrounding them both, and then slid one arm around her waist. The other hand he let glide up her spine, until he could tangle his fingers in her curls and cradle the back of her neck in his palm.

Then he pulled her close, guiding her head to his chest. He dipped his chin until her hair tickled his neck and simply held her. Rocked her. Breathed in the smell of paint and oranges. Reveled in the press of her breasts against him and the way her breath caught at his touch.

He spoke into her hair. “When my wife left me, she told me I’d turned into a boring automaton of a man. A workaholic who didn’t have anything but a decent paycheck to offer her. And she wasn’t wrong.”

At that, Jenny made an odd, adorable sort of growl. “Bullshit.”

“I don’t think she understood that part of the reason I pushed so hard at work was because things already weren’t great at home. Not over the dinner table, not in bed, not anywhere.” He pressed a kiss on the crown of Jenny’s head. “I’ve lived alone for a decade now. But I always wanted a strong, loving marriage, like my parents had. Maybe a kid or two. So I know how dreams can wither over time, Jenny.”

“David…” Resisting the pressure of his palm, she tilted her head back to look at him. “There’s plenty of time. You can still have that dream.”

He spoke with quiet emphasis. “So can you.”

Her lips pressed together, and she blinked up at him.

“I’ll ask my editor to include one of your regular paintings. I swear to God, Jenny, I’ll argue until I’m blue and she shoves me out of her office to get rid of me.” Lifting his arm from her waist, he tucked a curl behind her ear. “But even if I can’t convince her, your need to earn a paycheck doing Napoleonic portraits and penis-filled Michelangelo frescoes doesn’t make you less of an artist. It doesn’t invalidate your talent or erase over a decade of amazing work. And I have to believe that someday, someone will recognize that talent, want that work, and give you another shot.”

That wide mouth curved into a smile. “Maybe.”

“Not maybe.” He hiked her even closer, until she was standing between his legs. “Definitely.”

He didn’t make rash declarations like that. Ever. But he believed his words, believed in Jenny and her talent and her potential for greatness, just as she was.

She didn’t need to change. There was nothing wrong with her or her work. The world simply needed to catch up with her, and he was going to do his best to give that world a nudge.

That said, he should back away from her. Impose some distance before he compromised himself and his story. But how could he ignore that mobile mouth and those bright eyes? How could he not react to the way she fit against him, her softness cradling him, her hands tight and steady on his back? How could he resist the way she coaxed some sere, parched corner of his heart to life?

He couldn’t. So he didn’t try.

Any attempt at a relationship might end in both personal and professional disaster. They might or might not find a way to maintain their connection while living hours apart. That connection might wither for a thousand other reasons.

But his reticence wouldn’t be one of them.

Tonight, he planned to blow his narrow, constricted life wide open.

“I don’t kiss sources.” He whispered the words into her ear, running his nose along its fluted rim. “I don’t mix business with pleasure. Ever.”

She shivered, and for the first time in years, a rush of masculine confidence washed through him, erasing his doubts and all hope of holding back.

Fuck it. If she was willing, he was able and ready.

Her soft, small earlobe fit perfectly between his teeth, and she made an odd, choked sound at the gentle nip he gave her. He licked the spot, and her entire body rocked against his, moving closer, seeking friction and heat.

“Funny.” Her voice was breathless. “It kinda feels like you’re doing a fuckton of mixing. Unless you’re getting no pleasure out of this. Which would be a shame, since I’m enjoying the hell out of myself.”

Cupping the curve of her bottom with one hand, he rubbed against her. “I think that answers your question.”

She giggled, the sound airy and bright. “Yes, indeed.”

He trailed his mouth down the side of her neck until he could feel her pulse throb against his lips. Once he reached the right spot, he licked her soft skin and nibbled as he sucked lightly. Not enough to mark her, but enough to leave her sensitive and tender.

“Oh, that’s lovely.” She tilted her head to offer better access. “Feel free to do that for a year or two.”

He gave it more like a minute. And then, unable to wait any longer, goaded by the way she sighed and pressed against him, he used his hand on her neck to tip her face to the right angle. Her eyes were so damn bright, he couldn’t see anything else. But he could feel her smile as he covered her mouth with his for the first time.

She tasted like crab cakes and oranges and a sweetness the likes of which he’d never known before. Her lips parted, and before he could do more than groan his appreciation, she took the initiative, slicking her tongue along his.

One of her hands lowered to his ass, and she squeezed with her strong artist’s fingers. At that, he took over the kiss, making it hard and wet and deep. She hummed her pleasure into his mouth, and he hiked her leg up over his hip so he could get pressure where they both needed it.

Before he knew what he’d done, her coveralls were unzipped to the waist, and his hand was cupping her breast. He brushed his thumb over her nipple, and it furled beneath the thin fabric of her tank top.

He spoke against her mouth. “Come to bed with me.”

“Shit.” She arched, thrusting her breast into his hand as he flicked her nipple again. “Shit, that feels amazing.”

Lowering his mouth to that tight point, he licked the fabric until it turned wet and the flush of her areolas became visible. Then he sucked her into his mouth, fabric and all, and she moaned.

He lifted his head, but he could still feel her under his tongue, could still hear the way she’d whimpered at his mouth on her nipple.

“Come to bed with me, Jenny,” he repeated, his voice hoarse. “I’ll make it good for you, I swear.”

“I…” Her hands were clutching him, her fingers digging into his sides. “I don’t doubt that. And God, I want you above me. Inside me.”

Even through his haze of lust, he recognized that tone. “But?”

“But…” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. “But that man and his minions already think you’re biased. If you slept with a source before a story…”

His professional reputation would take a beating. He knew it. At the moment, he didn’t much care.

“It’s okay.” He bent down and captured her mouth once more, letting his lips cling to hers. “I can handle the uproar.”

She eased back an inch, and even though every cell in his body was screaming to hold on to her, he didn’t close the distance.

“You say that now.” Deep vertical lines had appeared between her brows. “But what happens when I go back to Virginia tomorrow? When Bigelow checks the hotel surveillance footage from tonight, and your affair with a source becomes public knowledge? When Bigelow’s cronies use me and our relationship to cudgel you?”

He shook his head impatiently. “They’d say the same thing if we got involved after the story. There’s no pleasing them, Jenny. There’s no way to convince them of the truth when they’re determined not to acknowledge it.”

“But at least you’d be able to say with honesty that you didn’t have a sexual relationship with your source when you wrote your article.” Her blue eyes, the sincerity in them, speared him. “You’d know you were telling the truth, even if no one else did.”

She was right. Damn it, she was right.

But he still didn’t plan to let her go.

“Then I’ll give my notes to a colleague and let her write the article.” Handing over such an explosive, important story would hurt, but he’d do it. Right now, he’d do anything to have Jenny in his arms. “I’ll contact her tomorrow.”

“No, David.” Jenny shifted another few inches away from him. “You’re the best person to tell this story. And I won’t let myself be the reason you didn’t.”

He dropped his head to his chest and tried to breathe.

“Let me go home and finish the paintings. Let me forward you pictures of them hanging in Bigelow Tower.” She laid a hand over his heart. “Then write your article and think about what you want. If you decide what you want is me, you’ll know where I am.”

He tried to laugh, despite the new ache that had bloomed beneath her touch. “I don’t have your address.”

“You’re the Washington Chronicle’s ace reporter.” She patted his chest, her smile wide and sweet and full of faith in him. “You’ll find me.”