Turning to her stallions, the vision suddenly burst to the surface, the shot of energy Sebastian had given her starting her creative juices flowing again. All at once, she could see why the horses looked skeletal. Because they were—just bare metal rods stuffed into pipe fittings. The rods needed filling out so that they emulated the curve of muscle and the suppleness of sinew. Somehow over the past weeks, she’d forgotten the brass pipes she’d found at the construction sale. They’d be a perfect fit.

She dove in to create the effect she wanted. But she didn’t forget Sebastian, not for one single second. Seated in one of the deck chairs he’d brought in weeks ago, he balanced the clipboard on his legs, his hands gliding over the page. After a while, he started asking questions, and she was happy to answer them, especially if it meant he would keep drawing.

“You’re doubling up on the rods?”

“I’m going to augment what’s there with the pipes. The brass will look like sinew and that will flesh out the muscles.”

He drew as he spoke, his fingers flying. He looked up, down, tipped his head one way, then the other. He talked, she answered and explained as she manipulated the metal and tack-soldered the pieces into place.

When she got to the welding itself, however, there was just her, the metal, and her torch for long enough that at some point Sebastian got up to leave. Immersed in her work, she hadn’t wanted to shut down and pull off her mask to ask where he was going. Not until he waved a ham sandwich under her nose, the aroma so tantalizing that her stomach growled raucously.

“You’re a life saver.”

Throwing off her gear, she slid down into the deck chair next to his as a new wave of exhaustion hit her. Hard. The work had sustained the flow of energy through her body until the moment she’d stopped. Now she honestly wasn’t sure she could get out of the chair.

Seating himself next to her, Sebastian jutted his chin at the stallions. “You were right, they needed filling out. Now you can see they’re racing like the wind.”

“Before, they were stick figures.” She took a bite of the simple sandwich, then closed her eyes and sighed. Sitting down was as delicious as the honey-roasted ham. “This gives them depth.”

“You never cease to amaze me. The way you envision your art and how you work. You try this thing, then that thing, changing it until finally the work perfectly matches your vision.”

“Isn’t that what every artist does?” She spoke without thinking as she drank thirstily from the frosty mug he’d brought.

“No.”

The simple word said it all. By this point she was too tired—literally a million miles past exhausted, all the way down to her bones—to keep pussyfooting around the issue. She was going to help him, damn it, whether he wanted her to or not!

“Can I see the drawings you did of me?”

* * *

Charlie’s tone was different. Not harder exactly. Not frustrated, either. But no longer the gentle persuasion she’d used before.

Her love for him still laced every word, but Sebastian instinctively knew that didn’t mean she’d back down any time soon. Just as he’d wanted to facilitate her career by finding her all the new commissions, she wanted to return the favor. The difference, however, was huge. She was a brilliant artist who deserved every accolade. He was little more than a hobbyist. Still, he wouldn’t hide the sketches from her. He’d made that mistake once, and he wouldn’t make it again.

He handed her the clipboard.

“Oh my God, Sebastian.” He’d caught her down on her haunches scrutinizing the weld on a horseshoe as if she were a vet examining a hoof for an abscess. “They’re fabulous.”

Of course she’d say that. She probably even half believed it. “They’re okay,” he said as mildly as possible. And by okay he meant crap.

Holding up the clipboard, she tapped the picture. “Tell me what could possibly be wrong with it? You’ve caught my concentration, even the squint while I’m studying that weld. Your drawings make me actually feel how hot it is in the room. And I swear the horses are going to fly off the pages. You really can’t see how brilliant your drawings are?”

“You have a vision, Charlie. You pound your work into submission, work and rework metal and parts until it perfectly meets your vision.” His gut felt completely wrenched as he admitted, “I don’t know what my vision is. I never have.”

“You keep talking about this vision thing as if it’s a big deal. Keep saying it’s perfect. But half the time I hardly know what I’m going to do with something until I stick it on somewhere and finally see its true purpose. And we both know my work isn’t perfect—how can it be, when I’m slapping together disparate pieces of junk all day? It can’t be perfect, but it can make people feel.”

“You don’t think I wish I could make people feel what I want them to feel when they look at my drawings?” A massive wave of frustration rushed through his veins, and he stabbed so hard, his finger nearly sliced through the paper. “All I wanted was to show your concentration, your focus, your drive. But I can’t get down what’s in my head. I never could.”

“Maybe that’s it,” she said slowly. “Maybe you should stop trying to make people feel one way or another. Stop trying to control other people’s emotions through your art and just trust that they will feel something, whether you intended it or not.” Carefully, she smoothed out the drawing. “You might have been trying to show my drive and focus, but I’d much rather you did what’s on the page instead—you showed my heart, Sebastian. And I’ve never felt more beautiful or more appreciated than when I look at this drawing.”

But if he’d truly drawn her heart, then why couldn’t he understand what she really wanted? Half the time he thought she was doing everything for her mother. Sometimes he even thought she was doing it for him. Lord knew she had enough commissions to take her into next year. Her bank account would be full and her mother cared for.

Yet he sensed Charlie wasn’t happy—and was becoming less and less happy by the day. He had no clue how to fix that. Was she focusing on his sketches simply as a way to get him to slow down the pace of everything else?

“All I want is to understand you, Charlie. And to make you happy.” She’d be done with the sculpture in three weeks. Twenty-one days that felt like a ticking time bomb. Despite knowing that they loved each other, he was beyond frustrated that they hadn’t figured out anything else. “Tell me how to do it. Tell me what I can’t see or fully understand.” Because he didn’t want to screw things up again.

“Do you really want to know what would make me happy?” She smoothed a hand over the four sketches in her lap. “That reporter from the big magazine you got in touch with—she’s coming next week and she wants to show the artist at work. Your drawings are good enough for that article.”

He didn’t equivocate, just gave her a flat, “No.”

But she was just as stubborn as he. More, maybe. “It would be awesome, Sebastian. Your art and mine on the same page. This is a perfect opportunity for us to do something together.”

“No,” he said again, his voice harsh this time. “Drawing is just for myself. I already have a career.”

“I know you do. But I see the way your hand flies over the paper when you draw. And how, despite your fears, you’re totally alive in the moment. You have to know you’re not alone—every artist who lives a creative life deals with fear and uncertainty. None of us have any idea how things are going to turn out—but that’s part of the magic. And that’s why I’m here. To tell you that I trust you, that I’ll be right here, right beside you every step of the way, believing in you until you can believe in yourself.” She balanced on the edge of her seat, gesturing in the air, her sentences a rapid-fire burst. “You just asked me what I want you to see. What I want you to understand. This is what you need to know, how amazing your art is. I know it would be exposing yourself, but I do it all the time and I can tell you that—”