4

      “YOU’RE AVOIDING SOMETHING, WREN.” Sean Ainslie’s voice cut into Wren’s thought process.

      Her brush hovered over the same patch of blank canvas that she’d been attempting to start work on for the last half hour.

      “Avoiding something?” She put the brush down onto her workstation and looked up. “What makes you say that?”

      His eyes swept over the lackluster canvas. A few strokes of color decorated one of the bottom corners but it was clear she had no direction. She hadn’t sketched anything out, hadn’t planned what the painting would look like. Hell, she couldn’t even legitimately claim that she was too swept away by her Muse to do any of the preparatory work.

      She had nothing, and as a result, the painting was nothing.

      Oh, it’s something all right. It’s a hot freaking mess, is what it is.

      “I saw so much inspiration in your portfolio, Wren. So much...” His hands fluttered in the air in front of him. “Passion. Creativity. Your paintings were bold and vibrant. This...” His hands dropped down to his sides. “I don’t know what this is. Do you?”

      “I’m a little blocked,” she admitted.

      Every time she tried to touch the paintbrush to the canvas she pictured Rhys’s expression when he’d looked at that painting. The memory filled her with a strange mélange of excitement and shame, anticipation and disgust. Part of her wished that she’d let him stay. If for nothing more than to see where they would have ended up. Visions of his deep brown skin and warm eyes filled her mind.

      “Just paint whatever pops into your head right now.” Sean touched her shoulder and she jumped, startled as she reached for her brush almost involuntarily. “Whatever image is in your mind now, paint it. I want you to get over this hurdle, Wren.”

      Biting down on her lip she shut her eyes and let the memory of Rhys gazing at the painting wash over her. His full lips, the wicked way they’d parted as his eyes had widened. The slight flare of his nostrils.

      She started mixing paint as she let her mind wander. His pupils had grown as he’d looked at her canvas, his breath stalling in his throat. Her life had contained few moments as electric as that, as intensely intimate and vulnerable. Wasn’t that the purpose of art? Laying yourself bare?

      Being open and receptive?

      But that’s how she’d been hurt before. With her heart so open and unprotected, it was ripe for the picking. Her fingers tightened around her brush as she stopped midstroke. The faint sketch of a man’s face—the high points of his cheeks, the rough contours of his lips and the strong angle of his jaw—filled the canvas.

      People can only hurt you when you let them. So don’t give them the opportunity.

      Her hand hovered again, the moment lost like steam into air. Fear had crept back in and chased inspiration away. Sighing, she threw the brush down into the palette, flicking sienna paint across the carefully mixed palette of earthy flesh tones.

      It was useless. She was useless.

      Sean opened his mouth to say something but they were interrupted when Lola poked her head into the room. “Sean? I’ve got the security people from Cobalt & Dane here to see you.”

      “Tell them I’ll be out momentarily,” he said. As Lola disappeared he turned back to Wren. “I want to see a complete painting next week. The whole point of you being here is to work on improving your art. I can’t help you with that if you don’t produce anything.”

      “I understand.”

      “If you’re not able to do that I’ll have to find another intern. It’s not fair for you to take a valuable position in my program if you’re not going to do the work. There are plenty of other artists who would eagerly step into your place.”