He stood from his stool, then lifted the torch and a new string of metal with the tongs. He melted the small steel rods and layered them along the formation of her face, the part most incomplete. As of now, she had a jawbone and a skeletal layer of skull. No hair yet. But he moved with such ease and confidence, I knew he could see her in his mind. Again, he set the torch aside so he could use those fingers to stroke up her jaw and shape the softened metal around her ear.

His hair had fallen back as he tilted his face up to focus, his mouth slightly apart in concentration. The music pulsed, and the sweat rolled down his muscled forearms. His biceps tightened with each press of his fingers, the veins in his arms prominent from blood pumping hard in the heated studio. Then he totally did me in.

He went back to work on her mouth, smoothing and pressing, swiping the pad of his thumb along the lower lip. His intense concentration, the way he sculpted with swift, deft movements of his fingers, the unbelievable beauty he created with nothing more than steel and heat and talent, I was completely mesmerized. In awe. And if I had to admit it, a little jealous.

That’s it.

Cramming my tablet into my backpack, I eased up the wall and pushed off, heading for the door.

“Where are you going?”

He had stopped with his hands midair, cupping right over her breast as he stared at me with a look of horror. Jeesh. Was my proximity that important that he seemed to look panicked at the thought of me leaving? I licked my lips. His intense brown eyes dropped to my lips and then raised again.

Jabbing a thumb over my shoulder, I said, “Just taking a bathroom and stretch break. You got one in the gallery?”

He nodded slowly, his expression shifting to concern. “Don’t be long.”

So bossy.

“I won’t.”

I slipped through the courtyard, noting that his sculpture of Hades stood like a sentinel, watching me pass through. I gave him a little salute and kept going. I found a restroom across from the office in the hallway. After that, I ventured into the gallery rather than head straight back to the workshop.

His assistant, Missy, stood next to a couple who were admiring a sculpture half the size of the mermaid he was working on out back. It was a depiction of a Greek soldier with a sword hanging in one hand. He faced a beautiful woman in a stola, holding one of her hands. Her other rested on his chest as she stared up into his eyes.

Missy was answering their questions. “It was right before King Leonidas left for the battle at Thermopylae. This was the last moment he would look on his wife, Queen Gorgo.”

“Fascinating,” said the middle-aged man, “how he captured their facial expressions with metal like this.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Missy was obviously proud of her boss’s work, her eyes glistening with adoration. “Mr. Cruz creates one-of-a-kind pieces. He never creates the same Greek character twice.”

“Never?” asked the woman, pressing a dainty hand with a rock of a diamond on her husband’s arm. At least, I assumed it was her husband.

“No, ma’am. He wants each collector to have a true original.”

“Impressive,” added the husband.

“He is.” Oh, boy. Looked like Missy had a bit of hero-worship for her boss. Couldn’t blame her. “Are you interested in this piece, Mr. Cooper?”

He bit his lip, staring at the sculpture with crossed arms for a full minute before nodding. “Yes, we’ll take it. But we’re from out of town. Can you pack it for travel? We fly home Sunday.”

“Absolutely.” Missy swished around them, her A-line skirt flaring with the turn as she sauntered back to the counter, her pretty curls bouncing on her shoulder. “Let me ring you up, and we’ll take care of it for you.”

They followed her to pay for the purchase, his wife smiling at the joy she saw on her husband’s face. She took his hand then lifted their joined hands to his mouth. He brushed his lips over the back of her knuckles, before dropping it and tending to Missy. A pang of…something squeezed my heart. It was such a small thing. A fleeting moment between two people who obviously had loved each other for a long time. It wasn’t a clingy, needy touch, but a swift, careful one that said so much. A deep, knowing kind of love.

It pricked inside my chest. I was thirty-eight, even though I looked younger, and I’d yet to experience anything close to what that couple had. Sure, I’d had plenty of boyfriends in the past, mostly human, which I always ended up breaking off before it got too serious. There was no way I could settle with a human. If he accepted the fact that I was a supernatural, I still didn’t want to outlive him by a couple hundred years. I’d only had one serious relationship. That one ended because, well, he just didn’t get me.

Derek had moved to New Orleans to finish his residency as a doctor. My cousin Drew from Lafayette introduced him to me and my sisters so he’d have some contacts in the witch world. At first, he was wonderful. So kind and attentive to my interests and my other hobbies. Well, to be completely honest, my artwork wasn’t a hobby. It was a dream. He’d thought my obsession with comics and quirky drawings endearing. His words, not mine. But after a year, he started hinting that I should start being more serious, which meant dressing more like a grown-up and doing more adultish things, like attend boring-ass coven cocktail parties with him.

I tried. I really did. But when he finally flat-out told me I needed to stop acting like a teenager and become the kind of partner he wanted to support his lifestyle in the upper echelon of society in the witch world, I had to let him go.

I snickered even though it still stung, remembering the look of shock on his perfect face when I broke up with him. And I do mean perfect, like Michelangelo flawless. To see that serene marble crack into disbelief was more comical than hurtful. He couldn’t believe that I—the immature pseudo-artist and waitress—was giving up all the magnanimous wonder that was Dr. Derek Charles Sullivan, wealthy aristocrat and respected warlock. Never mind the fact that he’d used me and my family contacts to be introduced into that society he wanted so badly. Sometimes, I thought that was all he’d wanted from me in the first place.

He’d actually sent me a birthday e-card a few months after we broke up, wishing me well and letting me know he had no hard feelings after the break-up. Pfft. Seriously? But then I’d noticed he made sure that he sent the e-card from his professional email, the signature stamped with his title at the bottom, Head of Coven, Greater Baton Rouge. He’d climbed the coven ladder and assumed control of Baton Rouge and the surrounding area in less than three months after we’d broken up. He was basically showing me what I’d missed out on after leaving him. It had only made me grateful and more sure that breaking up had been the right thing to do. Sending me that damn card to rub it in my face screamed loud and clear that he was not for me. What a dick. I was relieved to be rid of him.

The world of witches was a small circle, so our choice for spouses was practically microscopic. Hence, the reason my sisters and I were all still single, now in our thirties. Well, Jules was actually forty-two, though she looked younger than all of us with her pixie-sized self.

That was what the annual Coven Guild Summit was really all about. It was supposed to be a gathering of coven heads to share the current status of each region. Jules always dragged one or more of us with her. Every head brought an entourage to the final cocktail party to end the summit, which had resulted in more than one marriage over the decades.

Thankfully, Jules had stopped begging me to go for obvious reasons and was always graciously excused. The last thing in the world I wanted was to have Dr. Derek gloating over me with some model-leggy blonde on his arm.

It wasn’t that I missed him. Not even remotely. It was that he’d made me feel bad about my dreams. Made me feel small. Less. And because I’d yet to fully go for and make those dreams come true, I didn’t want to be reminded of my failure. It was like his comments about my pitiful attempt at being an artist had stabbed holes in my sails, and I couldn’t make myself venture out into open water just in case he was right and I’d end up sinking and drowning.

So I kept those dreams close to my chest, refusing to go too far outside my comfort zone. Jules knew, but she didn’t push me. I’d go for it when I was ready.

And standing here, staring at Mateo’s insanely beautiful talent in stunning works of sculpture, made me want to curl into a fetal position and hide those dreams forever. Maybe Derek was right. Maybe I was a joke.

“Evie?”

I jerked around and gasped in surprise, not having heard him walk up behind me. Still sweaty, but now with his hair pulled back in a short ponytail, some of his hair falling free, he scowled.

“You scared the crap out of me.”

He eased into my personal space. “Are you okay?”

I glanced around, realizing the couple had already left and Missy wasn’t even behind her counter. I’d been standing in a corner of the gallery, staring at some oil painting of a live oak in abstract colors for I don’t know how long.

“Of course.” My voice was too high-pitched, almost squeaky. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know.” He inched even closer, staring with too much intensity.

I got a good whiff of his natural scent mixed with sweat and some kind of masculine soap that sent my pulse rocketing. Old Spice? Surely, Old Spice couldn’t smell that good and make me want to lick him.

“Um, I was just admiring this painting.” I pointed, trying to draw his overly observant gaze away from me.

He looked at the landscape, burning bright in fiery reds, oranges, and yellows. “That’s one of Sandra’s pieces.”

“Sandra?”

“One of the artists who rents space in the gallery to exhibit their work.” His attention swiveled back to me, a frown creasing his brow again. “You seem on edge or something.”

“Not at all.” I swallowed and stepped back, then glanced at my watch. “Look. I do have a ton of stuff to do before my shift tonight.”