He was focused on driving mostly, but after about twenty minutes, I saw his attention flicker between me and the road, his head turning every once in a while, craning his neck to see what I was drawing. My lips curved in a smile as I crossed one leg over the other and tilted the sketchpad to obscure it from his view.

In the end, he huffed out a breath of irritation and asked gruffly, “What are you drawing?”

“You,” I answered honestly. There really was no point in lying. I was willing to bet he knew I was a tiny bit fascinated by him at this stage.

“Me? Why are you drawing me?”

I stewed on that one for a moment, trying to think of the best way to answer. “You’ve got an interesting face. I like interesting.”

Another huff of irritation. “I can’t see how drawing me driving would be very interesting.”

“I’m not drawing you driving. I’m drawing you on stage, weaving fire around your body. Having you in front of me for the physical characteristics is helpful. I can use my imagination for the rest.”

His brows shot up, and he appeared to be taken aback by my answer. He let go of the steering wheel and held a hand out for the sketchpad. “Let me see.”

I shifted back a little. “Nuh-uh. You don’t get to see it until it’s finished. And maybe not even then.”

He made a speedy move, grabbing for the sketchpad, but I was quicker and shot out of reach. “Hey, now, that’s a dirty tactic,” I said, laughing nervously.

In all honesty, I was self-conscious about showing him. I didn’t think I’d ever put such effort and detail into drawing a person before, and it was perfectly evident. It was also perfectly evident by the sheer amount of detail that I was obsessed with him. And, let’s face it, nobody wants the object of their obsession to be aware of it. Then you just end up feeling weird and itchy and a little bit like a creep.

“Lille, you have five seconds to hand me that sketchpad, or else,” he warned me. My heart stuttered in response to his harsh tone of voice, and my skin prickled in a way that made me wonder if I liked it.

“Not going to happen,” I said, sticking to my guns.

“Fine,” he replied a moment before he abruptly turned the steering wheel, bringing the camper over to the side of the road. The vehicles behind us honked their horns in annoyance while Jack casually pulled over and stopped. The rest of the circus party drove on ahead of us, and I saw a few people staring out of their windows curiously. I almost burst into laughter when Violet sped past, casually mimicking a blowjob with one hand as she drove.

I knew I was in for it when Jack undid his seatbelt and came at me. Quick as a flash, I was out of my seat and running. Though, since we were in the camper, there wasn’t really anywhere for me to run to.

I dashed inside his bedroom and slammed the door shut, pressing my body against it and holding down the handle to keep him from getting inside. And yeah, it was a futile mission because, let’s face it, my strength was no match for his. I was no dainty little thing, but still, Jack got the door open in record time, and I found myself stumbling backwards, my arse hitting the floor painfully.

“Ouch, my coccyx,” I whined, rubbing at my lower back.

Jack stood in the doorway, expressionless, for a moment before he began a slow laugh.

“What did you just say?”

“I hurt my coccyx, the lower part of my spine. I think I might have done some serious damage,” I complained, scowling up at him. “I’m glad to know you’re finding it so funny, though.”

He held his hand out to help me up and I took it, my sketchpad long forgotten on the floor. “I’m sure your coccyx is fine, Lille,” said Jack, towering over me. Then his voice dipped low. “But just to be sure, let me check.”

Slowly, he took a breath and reached around me, encapsulating me in his arms. He found my spine and gently ran his fingers downwards. When he reached the base, he started to rub in slow circles. I drew in a gulp of air, tingling all over from his closeness.

“How does that feel?” he murmured.

It felt incredible.

“G-good,” I managed, and glanced up at him.

He held my gaze and continued massaging for a full minute. It was perhaps the best minute of my life, all eye contact and gently probing fingers. I was a little disappointed when he drew away. “Better now?”

I swallowed and nodded. “Mm-hmm, much better.”

“Good,” he said, and before I could react, he dove for my sketchpad, picking it up and flipping through the pages, trying to find my most recent drawing. I swiped for it, but he held it above his head, and yeah, there was no way I was going to reach it. I briefly considered hopping on his bed for the extra height, but I had shoes on, so I thought that might be rude, even though he was being epically rude by nosing at my pictures without my permission.

I accepted defeat and stood back, folding my arms and leaning against the door while he examined my drawings as though they were curious artefacts. I got a little dry-throated just watching him. There were a lot of half-finished works in there, and I really did have a fear of my incomplete drawings being seen. I wasn’t sure why, but his opinion was important to me. I didn’t want him to dismiss my work as airy-fairy and pointless like Shay Cosgrove would have.

“You see a lot of light in the world,” Jack said finally, his face drawn into a perturbed expression. He flipped to the next page, and I knew he’d come to the drawing of him because he paused, dark eyes taking it in. I bit on my fingernails, waiting.

He tilted his head to the side and held the sketchpad out to look at the picture from a different angle. Then he glanced at me and back to the sketchpad before cocking a brow.

“This is how I look to you?” he asked.

“Uh, yeah,” I croaked.

He was staring at the picture again, and almost in slow motion, I saw his lips curve into a smile. It was the most goose-bump-inducing, belly-tingling, heart-fluttering smile I’d ever witnessed. He closed the sketchpad and handed it back to me, then placed a kiss on the top of my head.

“You’re a great artist, Lille,” he said, and then made his way to the front of the camper without another word. I was still standing there when the engine started running and we were on the road again. I stumbled a little and steadied myself on the bed before sitting down. What he said had been so simple, and yet it felt like just a few words from him, telling me that I didn’t actually suck, had legitimised me. For the first time in my life, I felt real.

I could officially tick number nine off my list. Wow.

I didn’t know how long I’d been sitting there when I finally managed to draw myself out of my thoughts. Looking around Jack’s room, I saw a tall, narrow wardrobe, some drawers, and a couple of shelves built into the wall. On the shelves was an array of books. I leaned closer to read the spines and found that they were all books for kids and teenagers. Adventure novels. Fantasy. Science Fiction. The only book that wasn’t a novel was a big, hardback, well-worn Oxford English dictionary. Randomly, I pulled out a paperback and flipped through the pages. It was curious that there wasn’t a single adult book in his entire collection.

I noticed that certain words had been underlined with a pencil. Words like “abolish,” “eschew,” “contrite,” and “gregarious.” They were the kind of words you wouldn’t really consider using until you were older and more learned, but still, any fully grown adult would at least have a decent idea of what they meant. It struck me that Jack must have been underlining them so he could go and look them up later.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted another book on his bedside dresser. It was a brand-new copy of Great Expectations, and I immediately remembered how I’d told Jack it was my favourite work of Dickens. I picked it up and found that a receipt had been tucked into the inside cover. It was for a shop back in Caen, the date showing he’d bought it just a few days ago. The bookmark told me he was just over a hundred pages in. Had he bought this because I’d mentioned it? The thought made my chest feel too full.