Page 47 of Sweet Surrender
Allie grinned. “Exactly.”
Barra’s laugh came out loud and delighted. “You’re recreating Big Sur?”
“Loosely. With better lighting. Fewer drunk wedding guests. No risk of anyone walking in on us.”
Allie pushed open the back-room door with her hip and drew Barra inside.
The room was narrow but warm, packed with the private mess of a gallery still becoming itself. Bubble wrap spilled from one corner. A rolling cart held a tray of picture hooks, a level, white cotton gloves, and three abandoned coffee cups. Against the far wall sat a huge wrapped painting, waiting to be hung. Its protective paper was already peeled back from the upper half.
The painting was a portrait.
A woman stared out from the canvas with dark, unsmiling eyes. One eyebrow was lifted as if she had walked in on something scandalous and intended to judge it thoroughly.
Barra stopped dead.
Allie followed her gaze, then burst out laughing. “Oh my god.”
“No,” Barra said immediately.
“What?”
“No. Absolutely not.” She shook her head from side to side.
“It’s a painting.”
“It has eyes.”
“Most portraits do.”
“Judging eyes. That woman has opinions.” Barra pointed at it, offended all the way down to her soul. “Turn her around.”
Allie laughed harder. “You survived twenty-eight days in the wilderness, a double-elimination advantage, sex in the junglewith wild creatures waiting to pounce, Sutton’s personality, and me crying over plinth placement, but you draw the line at painted voyeurism?”
“Yes,” Barra said with great dignity. “I am not going to be watched going down on you by a woman in oils.”
“She’s acrylic.”
“I don’t care if she’s watercolor and supportive of the extra weight I’m carrying around my hips. Please turn her around.”
Allie crossed the room, still laughing, and carefully rotated the canvas until the painted woman faced the wall.
“There,” Allie said. “Privacy.”
Barra looked at the back of the canvas suspiciously. “I feel like she still knows what we are about to do.”
“She’s art. She’ll cope.”
Barra’s gaze came back to Allie, and the humor between them slipped into pure desire. The energy had been building all afternoon, beneath the stress, the grand opening nerves, the rearranged paintings, and every almost-touch they had swallowed instead of indulged in.
Allie stepped closer and placed one hand on Barra’s waist. The other slid up to the nape of her neck until her fingertips brushed the short hair there. Barra’s eyes fluttered for half a second, and heat built between Allie’s legs. She loved knowing that this woman could battle through hunger, rain, strategy, and heartbreak, yet still melt beneath the smallest touch.
“I really do want to thank you,” Allie said.
Barra swallowed. “You already did.”
“No,” Allie whispered, guiding her backward until Barra’s hips met the edge of the worktable. “Not properly.”
Barra’s fingers curled around the edge of the table. Her breath hitched, just barely.
