Exposed to You by Beth Kery Read Free Book Online Page A

like some hot tea?” she asked without removing her gaze from an opened cabinet when the wooden floor creaked behind her a moment later.
    “I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he said. She glanced around and did a double take when she saw him in the robe. He grinned and double-pumped his eyebrows.
    “Sexy, no?” he said. The robe was gender neutral enough, but his shoulders were too broad for the fabric, leaving a V shape of his chest exposed.
    She suppressed a laugh and turned away to fill the teapot. “I understand you’re known for a . . .
colorful
style of dressing,” she said tactfully after a pause, “but I don’t know how well this getup would go over with your adoring public.”
    “Colorful, huh? I thought the magazines said I dressed like a slob,” he said distractedly as he noticed some of the artwork she had displayed in the dining and living room.
    She smiled to herself as she opened a box of tea. “Those same magazines also seem to name you the sexiest man of the year for I don’t know how many years running, so I guess dressing like a slob works.”
    “Do you mind if I have a look at your paintings?” he asked, pointing at a collection of three canvases arranged in her dining room.
    “No, of course not,” she said, her torso twisted so she could look at him. Had she offended him with the sexiest man of the year comment? No, it wasn’t that, she realized as she watched him wander away. He just hadn’t considered the topic vaguely worthwhile. His entire focus had shifted to her paintings.
    “They’re yours,” she heard him say once he stood before them.
    “Yes.”
    She approached him a few minutes later in the living room, carrying two steaming cups. He now studied the oil mounted above the fireplace, his focused attention almost tangible. Her gaze ran over him from behind. How could he possibly appear so comfortable—so masculine—while wearing a woman’s bathrobe? His strong-looking calves were dusted with light brown hair. The fabric outlined muscular buttocks. The artist in her wanted to remove the robe and memorize every inch of him with her brush. The woman in her longed to make the study using lips and fingertips.
    He turned as she approached and blinked.
    “I love your stuff. Reminds me a little of Rousseau—meticulous, primitive, yet dreamlike—but your femininity civilizes it,” he reflected, taking the cup she offered him. “What?” he asked, pausing when he noticed her small smile.
    “Do you ever do or say anything without total confidence?” she wondered aloud, taking a step back and setting her own tea on the table behind her couch. She walked around the couch and sat down.
    “Does that mean I sounded like a pompous ass just now?” he asked, a grin twitching his mouth as he followed her around the couch.
    “No, not at all,” she assured him. She stiffened slightly when he sat down on the cushion next to her. She swore he noticed—did he miss anything?—but he said nothing. “I wasn’t being sarcastic. I studied Rousseau extensively while I was at art school in Paris.”
    “Did you study undergraduate there?” he asked, taking a sip. His wet hair waved around his temples and on his forehead, a glorious mess.
    “Just my junior and senior years.”
    “I studied art history for undergrad at UCLA,” he said, surprising her.
    “Really? I would have thought acting.”
    “Nah, I just fell into that by accident. I needed some cash for Christmas presents for my family senior year, and did a walk-in audition for a commercial.”
    “And your fate was sealed,” she murmured, picking up her tea to take a sip. He glanced at her and they shared a smile. “What did you plan to do with your art history degree?”
    “I thought I’d travel the world, collecting art for a gallery or museum. Turned out, the part that appealed to me the most was the travel, not the art collection. No offense.”
    “None taken.” She set down her cup and settled back on the