And then the image she’d drawn the day Professor Lin had pulled her aside. Told her that if she didn’t define herself, she’d never make it as an artist. That she’d never sell.

He paused, hand hovering at the corner of the page.

“You were angry,” he said. It was the first comment he had made.

“Scared,” she corrected.

“I can see that.”

He flipped past the pictures she had already shown him from the day she’d sketched outside of Notre Dame, and then he was looking at the first one she’d done today. His brow furrowed, and he turned his head to look at her. “You went back to Sacred Heart?”

“Yeah?” She didn’t mean it to come out like a question, but it did.

The way he was staring at her, it was as if he could see right through her. He didn’t look angry or exhausted anymore, not the way he had when she’d come through the door. But he didn’t look like the confident, oversexed guy she’d taken a chance on, either.

His gaze held for a moment that felt like it went on and on. Then he lifted a hand, the tip of it stained gray from the charcoal on the edges of her sketchbook. He cupped her cheek and leaned in. The kiss, when it came, was a simple, chaste press of lips on lips, but there was a weight to it. An unspoken moment of connection, of understanding. She’d seen what he’d seen on that hilltop. Had tucked it away and treasured it, and when she’d most needed to recapture some sort of inspiration, some impetus to make something with her hands . . .

That’s where she’d gone.

He let her go, drawing back, but the heat of his gaze lingered even as he returned his attention to the page. He flipped to the next and then the next, and she held her breath. This was the one she’d felt so good about, after her first set of false starts. The one she’d done with the memory of his presence flowing from her fingertips, imbuing every stroke and shade with life.

Ghosting his fingers over the dark, black marks, tracing without touching or smudging, he followed the swooping arcs she’d mapped onto the paper. For a long time, he stared at it.

Finally, he started moving through the pages again. She watched from over his shoulder, her breath coming more easily now. These pictures didn’t give her that cringing feeling she got looking at her own work sometimes. She was proud of these. When he reached the last one, he flicked back through them, stopping on the one she’d drawn from the top of the hill.

“These are incredible,” he said.

The urge to demur stole over her, even as she flushed with the praise. He’d believed in her before, and he believed in her now. It pushed away the doubt that always plagued her. Made the spark of her inspiration ignite. “I was just playing with something. An idea.” She pointed to the web of lines he’d been drawn to before. “Tying everything together.”

“It’s great. Really.” He shifted to look at her. “It’s really, really great.”

And what could she say to that?

He shook his head, as if he could sense her discomfort at taking a compliment. “I love the way you see things. And these . . . Not that the rest of your stuff wasn’t good, but the stuff you did today. It’s something different.”

Her lungs felt tight, a warmth and an excitement fit to burst behind her breast. These images had felt different. Still, it hadn’t just been her and her skill. “It’s the city. Paris. It’s beautiful.”

“No.” There was such certainty to his voice. It stopped her cold. “It’s you.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how you can possibly even consider not going to grad school for this. You’ve got this . . .”

He trailed off. Don’t say talent, don’t say talent. People always said that, and she hated it. It demeaned all the work that went into what she did.

His mouth curled up into a soft, sad smile, and suddenly he wasn’t talking about her future anymore. “It’s how you see things, Kate. In these pictures, the ones you made today . . . It’s like I can see through your eyes.”

And there was an aching note now. She glanced up to meet his eyes.

All the edges of him were on display again. Not as jagged as before, not as tired. But they were there, and it struck her: She had no idea who this man was. What had happened to him to put those shadows in his eyes. How he felt or where he’d come from.

She wanted to, though. Desperately.

His gaze burned. As if he could hear her thoughts, he closed the book. He grazed a single fingertip along her temple beside her eye.

And then he asked her, “How do you see me?”

The strangest part was, it sounded like he actually wanted to know.

She blinked, once, then twice. With trembling hands, but with a surety she didn’t know how to name, she reached for her bag and the supplies that it contained. For the fresh sketchbook she’d picked up on her way back to the hotel.

Because she had wanted this. From the very first time she’d laid eyes on him, she’d been itching for this.

“I don’t know.” She turned it to the blank first page. “But I’d like to find out.”

Rylan glanced between Kate’s face and her hands. What she was offering was clear, and it was what he’d asked for, wasn’t it?

God, but his mood was twisted right now. He wanted to be here, enjoying their last couple of days together, but after Lexie’s call, all he could think about were his shirked obligations. His mother’s face and his father’s betrayals and everything he was missing back home. Everything he’d run away from.

All he could see was his own reflection staring back at him, and it was ugly. He didn’t even want to look into his own damn eyes.

And there was a part of him, an angry, sullen piece of his soul, that wanted Kate to draw him. He wanted to look at himself through her pretty brown eyes and see the same callousness and apathy he’d been accused of so many times this year. To see it all confirmed would be a relief almost—a sign that his decision to sit here wasting his life alone was as good a choice as any.

He set her sketchbook aside before he could crush the pages with his grip.

He wanted her to draw him. And he wanted her to see something in him worth holding on to.

“Okay,” he said finally, mouth dry and palms sweating. He managed a vague half smile. “What should I do?”

“Just get someplace comfortable. Sitting in that chair maybe. Or lying down?”

“Whatever you want.”

She looked away, cheeks flushing.

That was interesting.

He ducked to put himself in her line of sight, quirking one eyebrow up. “What do you want?”

“Well, we—” She fidgeted, fussing with the binding of her sketchpad. It seemed to take her actual physical effort to meet his gaze. “We could do a figure drawing.”

“Which means?”

“Drawing your”—she gestured vaguely at his torso—“figure.”

It struck him all at once. “You want to draw me naked?”

She fake-smacked him with the book. “Well, it sounds dirty when you say it that way.”

“It sounds dirty if you say it any way.”

“It’s not.” A seriousness bled into her tone. She lifted her chin. “You’re—you’re beautiful. All the muscles, and your jaw and your . . . you.”

Some of the ugliness that had been festering in his heart all afternoon melted away.

She shrugged, looking down again. “You are,” she insisted. And she was so brave. He’d never given her enough credit for that. “The first day I met you, part of why I took that cup of coffee was your—your jaw. You were like a statue, and I wanted to get to look at you a little longer.” Twisting at her knuckle, she bit her lip. “And then I got to touch you, too, and see you without your clothes, and you’re just— I’d like to. If you’ll let me.”

Finally, she glanced up again, and his breath caught. Gears turned over in his mind, words rising up to the surface, but for once in his life, he couldn’t seem to get them to spill forth.