“Did you sleep all right?” He leans down just inches from my face like we’re old lovers, rests his cheek in his hand, elbow propped up on the bed. He smiles. “I slept very well, thanks to you.”

I blush. “Me too.” Better than I’ve slept in months, actually. And it wasn’t just the physical connection. With St. Clair I feel something more. But it’s too early to analyze my love life. I need coffee. “Where’s the Joe?”

He points at his chest. “I’m Char-les, remember?” He grins.

“Oh, oops. I must have gotten in the wrong cab last night,” I grin. “These British guys all look the same.”

“Well then I guess I need to be in the wrong cab more often,” he says and pulls me closer.

“Guess so,” I mumble as he brushes his lips across mine. I happily snuggle into his chest and it’s then that I realize what it is about him: I’m comfortable. It’s stress-free to be with him, fun.

Careful, Grace, what happened to keeping it professional? Guess I left it behind when I got in that cab to St. Clair’s apartment last night.

I grin. “But seriously, I smell coffee.”

He shakes his head, mock-disappointed. “You Americans and your precious cups of joe.”

“What about you?” I tease. “You better not tell your neighbors you’ve defected from tea. They’ll take away your citizenship.”

He laughs again and I can’t help but love how easy this is. Part of me worries it’s too good to be true, but I tell that part to be quiet and leave me to enjoy this moment in peace. How can I find true beauty if I’m not willing to hope, to take a chance that fantasies do occasionally come true?

A timer dings from another room and I realize I haven’t even seen the rest of the house, and the living room was dark and much less interesting to look at than St. Clair last night. “That means your coffee has finished brewing.” He squeezes me in a sweet lingering hug and then sits up, the back of his hair sticking out like porcupine quills. It’s like he’s trying to kill me with cuteness.

I sit up, too, finally seeing beyond the fluffy pillows and blankets. We’re on the second floor which I know because all I see out the floor-to-ceiling windows across the room is light, and blue sky, and tiled rooftops stretching for miles. A flock of birds shoots by and in the distance a church bell chimes. “Gorgeous.”

St. Clair stands up. He looks down at me with affection. “Indeed.” He tugs the covers away. “Come on, sleeping beauty. I’ll make you breakfast.”

There’s so much glass in his condo, we might as well be outside. A large skylight above and lots of windows let in natural light that makes everything glow, the morning sun illuminating his many art pieces: a Van Dyck, yet another Picasso. There are also some more recent British artists in his collection here, a bit bolder, more contemporary and freeform, but still amazing.

“Your collection is incredible,” I say as we pass through the living room to the kitchen. The couch we couldn’t make it to last night—a mere four feet away from the door—is soft taupe suede, the walls plain white, and a white wood mantel frames a clean gas fireplace. “Where do you find the time to buy it all?”

“I don’t.” He rummages through a cabinet next to the stove for a frying pan. He finds one and twirls it in his hand as he turns to me. “That’s why I need you.”

I sit at the counter in a bar stool facing him and watch him as he cooks. He’s confident in the stainless-steel clad kitchen, cracking and beating eggs, toasting bread, frying ham and a few tomato slices as I sip my coffee. I try not to imagine how many other women he has cooked breakfast for and just enjoy him doing it for me. And I mean, doing it for me in every way possible, his white robe creating a triangle of smooth chest I want to run my hands over, feeling the definition of his muscles as I move my hands down his abs—

“So I have a surprise for you,” St. Clair says as he puts a plate in front of me.

“A surprise?” A little flurry of excitement flutters in my chest. “What is it?”

He chuckles. “Well that would ruin the surprise, wouldn’t it?”

“Tell me!”

“Let’s eat and then we’ll go.”

“Torturer,” I say, eating a bite of ham and eggs. It’s good, of course. Everything St. Clair does is good. Could this man be any more perfect?

St. Clair doesn’t take me far for my surprise, just a few minutes walk away. He turns of off a bustling street with chic cafes and boutiques, and stops outside a narrow townhouse. On the ground floor, there’s a small dry cleaners. I’m confused. “Is there something you’re trying to tell me?” I joke.

He laughs and pulls out a key that opens one of the doors. “Do you trust me?”

I look up into his deep blue eyes and feel it in my gut. I do trust him. I have from the beginning.

“Grace?” He looks worried.

“What?”

“That wasn’t meant to be a trick question.”

“Right.” I shake my head. “Of course I trust you!”

“Good. I was beginning to worry there for a second.” He unlocks the door beside the dry cleaners and leads me up a flight of narrow stairs. There’s another door at the top, and this time after he unlocks it, St. Clair stands aside. “Go ahead,” he grins, looking like he’s the one about to get a gift.

I slowly move past him, then stop in my tracks. It’s an art studio. A dozen canvases of varying sizes line one wall, and several easels are set up on the concrete floor that’s splattered with paint drops and a large spill in some dark color. A shelf against one wall is stocked with all kinds of paints: acrylics, oils, watercolors, and brushes of all kinds and shapes. The studio is filled with light from three windows near the ceiling, and an industrial sink sits in the corner, lovingly stained by past artists.

“Is this space connected to the college?” I ask, still a little confused. “Are we meeting the students?”

“Not exactly,” he says, grinning ear to ear. “This is your surprise. It’s for you.” He gestures at the room.

“For me?” I echo dumbly.

“No, for your art. So you can work, paint again.” He gives a bashful shrug. “Maybe it will help you find your inspiration.”

I’m speechless. “You got this space for me?”

“Do you like it?”

I’m fighting tears. This sweet and thoughtful gesture is more than money. He cares about me and my work. “How can I ever hope to repay you for all of this?” I whisper.

“I want the first Grace Bennett original in my house.” He smiles. “Deal?’

“Deal,” I say, my heart overwhelmed with emotion. He leans down to kiss me, his hands trailing down my cheek to bring my chin up to meet his lips. Our tongues brush each other, our breaths mingling, and it’s electric as always, but there’s more than heat, too; a deeper connection.

“Thank you,” I whisper when we pull apart.

He kisses my forehead. “Thank you, Grace, my lucky charm.” He checks his watch. “Now, I have to get back to some business, but you stay here as long as you like and see what creativity erupts.”

When he leaves I wander the room, lightly touching the paint bottles and running my fingers along the brush bristles in amazement. I can’t believe all this is mine. I ruminate on what St. Clair said about passion never disappearing, and remember what my mom told me about creativity, that it never comes when you try to force it.

Still, I’m nervous after all this time. So I decide to take the pressure off: I pour out some paint and just play around for a while, making lines in random colors, trying different pressures and mediums. I don’t even notice as the day passes until the light is fading from the windows, and I realize I’ve had fun. No-pressure painting, just like back in the old days, before there were outcomes attached to my work. Free. And I have St. Clair to thank for that.

I’m walking on cloud nine on my way back to my flat. I feel like even if I don’t paint a masterpiece anytime soon, today was the first time I put brush to canvas in years, and that is amazing. As I approach my street, I try to think of a way I can show my appreciation to St. Clair. He’s the man who seems to have everything, but I’m sure I can think of some little token to thank him for everything he’s done.