“Keep your eyes on your own paper,” he nipped, his tone playful.
“Am I giving you performance anxiety?” I asked. The question
sounded overtly sexual and I felt my cheeks fill with blood. My body
grew tense, waiting for him to respond. Instead, he walked over to
look at my progress, standing behind me close enough to make his
breath cling to my neck. The warmth made my stomach tumble.
“Performance never gives me anxiety,” he said, his voice coarse
and nearly a whisper. A thousand different thoughts sprang into
action. I envisioned Rowan in front of a camera acting. Playing
soccer on a field somewhere in Leeds. Laying in bed next to me, a
wicked smirk fixed upon his exhausted face. My mind lingered longer
than necessary on the last one and I cleared by throat to break the
silence.
“Care to wager?” I asked before I had a chance to think my words
through. His eyebrows raised, considering me. “I bet my painting
will sell for more.” No it won't, I thought. You're an
idiot.
“And if it does?” He asked leaning in closer. The whole room
seemed to go pin drop silent and I imagined everyone's eyes burning into us. I couldn't wager money. No. That wouldn't make
sense. We both had plenty of that so it needed to be something
outside of his comfort zone. Janie's presence drifted into my mind.
Her lamenting form touching on everything she wanted to do but
wouldn't. And then it came to me.
“Drag show,” I blurted out. Rowan was silent at first as he
straightened up. His eyes suddenly coming alive with delight.
“That's it? That's your worst?” He laughed. “I love drag races.
I'm almost inclined to let you win.” His hands clasped in front of
his torso in a smug fashion.
“Drag show. Not races.” I said again, this time with better
emphasis. I didn't need to elaborate. His expression fell and his
arms drew defensively across his chest.
“You're joking, right?”
“Hey, you said performance never gives you anxiety,” I stated
pleased to be using his words against him. “Actually...is that...is
that sweat collecting on your brow?” My hand reached out to touch
his forehead and he ducked away from me.
“Fine. It's not like you're going to win anyway. But if I win you
go to a Manchester game with me,” he said.
“Done,” I agreed, turning to face the canvas before me, my expression fierce with determination.
“But in full war paint,” he added. His finger drew against my
temple, swirling a few strands of hair. “Your brow.” He trailed his
finger down my face. “Your cheeks.” And further down my jaw.
“Your neck.” My body erupted in chills and I batted his hand away
to keep him from seeing. He seemed amused anyway as he walked back to
his easel.
***
That's all for now! Stay tuned for more....
