any of the woodlands.” She showed him a few more features of her studio, ending with the sunny corner where she liked to paint.
His eye roamed over the paintings she’d taped up around the windows and walls. There were dozens.
“You paint, you draw, you carve,” he observed. “You don’t ever feel like you’re spreading yourself too thin?”
As soon as he asked, he wondered if the question was too pointed. If he sounded critical again, the way he had in the meeting earlier. But the query was honest, and some of his bluntness was simply a part of his personality, long before the PTSD had hit him hard.
She shrugged, not seeming to take offense. “You repair everything from gallbladders to head trauma. I like to think I take that same kind of holistic approach to my expertise, too. It’s all art, so it’s all in my body of work.”
“There are so many paintings.” He ran a finger over one image of a woman’s back. Or at least, he thought it looked the curve of a feminine spine. The colors were muted and the image was a close-up, so he couldn’t be sure. Yet there was a sensuality to the flare of hips, and the subtle shape of an hourglass.
“I paint them quickly in the morning sometimes for a warm-up, just to get ideas flowing.” She glanced up at some of the paintings above her head, a rainbow of color on the wall behind her.
“How about the drawings?” he asked, thinking back to the sketch she’d done of him. “What makes you decide to use charcoals instead of paints?”
Her hesitation made him think that she understood exactly what he sought to discover. What had made her sketch him?
She took her time answering, threading a finger under a loose curl to skim it away from her face. A prism hanging in a nearby window reflected flashes of light on her skin. “I’m inclined to draw when I’m unsettled. I often use the charcoals to vent emotions—nervousness, anger...grief.”
Her voice hitched a bit, alerting him that he may have touched a nerve. Regretting that, he sought to reroute the conversation, not wanting to lose the tenuous connection he really wanted to strengthen with this woman. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an in-depth talk with anyone outside of the workplace.
“It’s good you’ve got a productive outlet for that.” He wondered which of those negative emotions had driven her to sketch him. No doubt he’d upset her earlier in the day. “Too many surgeons I know detach so thoroughly that they become—” Jackasses? That seemed a harsh way to define some of his colleagues. “Dedicated loners.”
“You wouldn’t be able to perform your job without some ability to detach.” Her hand alighted on his forearm in a gesture of comfort.
The contact was a social politeness. An expression of empathy.
But damn if it didn’t light up all his circuits like the Fourth of July. For the space of two heartbeats, her touch remained. He looked down at the place where she’d touched him, her fingers already sliding away. He missed the warmth immediately. Craved more of her caresses.
“Detaching isn’t a problem for me,” he admitted, unwilling to confess how deeply he wrestled with the fallout from that skill. “Sometimes that makes me far too abrupt, as you witnessed firsthand in today’s committee meeting.”
He watched her face, locking on her expression before he continued. “Were you venting negative emotions about that when you drew the picture of me?”
Perhaps she’d been expecting the question, or maybe she’d simply been more prepared to revisit the topic after her initial embarrassment about the sketch. She lifted a brow, her gaze wary, but she didn’t flush with discomfort this time.
“You noticed that and didn’t say anything?” She shook her head with a rueful laugh and leaned up against a built-in counter with cabinets below and shelves overhead. Paintbrushes in every size imaginable hung on a rack over the shelves. “I guess you are good at detaching. If I saw someone had made a picture of me, I would have been quick to ask a hundred questions about it.”
His gaze traveled her body, where her position drew all the more attention to her curves.
“I was curious.” He shoved his hands in his pockets to combat the urge to touch her. “I just didn’t think it was the right moment to ask.”
“Truthfully, yes, I felt frustrated about the meeting when I returned to the studio. I didn’t have any preconceived idea of what I would draw. I just sat down to blurt out anything that came to mind.” She met his eyes directly. Openly. “I was surprised when I saw you take shape on the paper.”
He wanted to think he’d ended up there because they had a connection. An undeniable spark.
Because the longer he lingered in Abigail’s sunny studio, the more he felt his normal boundaries crumbling. And while he wanted that—craved following up on the attraction simmering between them—he wasn’t sure how he would handle anything beyond simple lust. The realization made him edgy.
She filled the silence that followed with a sudden question. “Would you like me to finish the drawing?”
His throat went dry. The question had gotten complicated in the space of a moment as he started to recognize that Abigail wasn’t going to be the kind of woman who would be open to a purely physical relationship.
“I wouldn’t want to keep you from your work.” He couldn’t think of a more eloquent retreat with Abigail moving toward him. Touching him again.
“Not at all.” She took his hand briefly to lead him toward a chair near her painting spot, her touch fanning the flame inside him, making him think about so much more. “Have a seat and I’ll finish up. You can see what it’s like to watch an artist at work.”
In the space of five minutes, Vaughn realized he’d somehow used up all his emotional reserves today. All of his ability to detach. Because that simple touch from Abigail sent all the wrong messages to his brain. He hadn’t given himself the outlet of a sexual relationship since he’d returned from Afghanistan. And now, the consequences of that had him on sensory overload, when he’d already battled the aftermath of a hellish surgery this morning.
A perfect storm of too many emotions without enough time to process them. He should have taken the time to go home and pick up Ruby before he came here. Having his dog beside him would have helped.
But he was already sitting in the seat Abigail had shown him when she returned with a heavy pencil in one hand and her half-made sketch in the other. She set both on a low table nearby, then moved closer to him, her gaze all over him. Studying him.
Seeing inside him somehow.
“Do you mind if I position you just a little?” she asked, already setting aside the folder he’d been carrying.
He wasn’t sure if he’d agreed or not. His forehead broke out in a sweat. Warning heat blasted up his back. He wanted her.
“Here.” Abigail set her hands on his shoulders and gently shifted them toward her.
She stood close, her knee brushing his thigh as she moved him, her breasts at eye level. She smelled like cinnamon and oranges, a spicy, tangy fragrance that would be burned into his memory forever. Sunlight kissed her face as she lifted his chin with one palm, her eyes taking a critical assessment of his features while he battled lust and a whole knot of other things he couldn’t come close to naming. Hunger for her gnawed at him. Hot. Persistent.
“I’ve got to go.” He clamped a hand on her wrist. Too hard at first. But then, realizing his responses were all out of whack, he gentled his hand. Released her. “I’m sorry, Abigail. I forgot that I said I would—” He rose from the chair. Sidestepped her. “Upload my notes on a critical-care patient after some—” His brain worked to come up with something vaguely believable before he did something stupid. Like kiss her until they were both breathless. Senseless. “Technical difficulties at the hospital.”
His