Another Woman's Man by Shelly Ellis

body heat, and the smell of his cologne.
    â€œI hadn’t planned on it.”
    â€œSo I don’t get a portrait?”
    She lifted an eyebrow. “Why, Mr. Hughes, are you asking me to sketch you?”
    â€œSure, why not?” He grabbed one of the extra pads and pencils on her desk. “I’ll sketch you too. We’ll do each other.”
    Dawn had a saucy reply to that double entendre waiting to spring from her lips, but she bit it back.
    Sister’s fiancé, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time that day. He’s also not even thirty yet.
    â€œOK,” she said, flipping open her pad. “Why not?”
    He pulled up a chair in front of her and they both sketched for several minutes, not saying anything.
    â€œYou’re good at this, you know,” he blurted out, looking up from his sketch pad.
    â€œI should hope so. I wouldn’t be much of an artist if I wasn’t,” she mumbled, trying to get the correct arch of his brow.
    â€œI meant teaching . I meant you’re good at teaching, Dawn. I’ve never seen the kids this focused during art class.”
    She sketched the bridge of his nose. “Maybe my outfit was more of an inspiration than a distraction.”
    â€œSeriously, would you consider coming back here to teach again? Maybe volunteering? We could use the help.”
    â€œWould you consider holding still?” Dawn reached for him. “You asked me to sketch you, so stop moving!”
    The instant she held his chin, she knew it was a mistake. An electric charge shot up her arm when she touched him. It made her catch her breath.
    This time Dawn saw something lingering in those pale gray irises that she hadn’t seen before. This time his gaze wasn’t completely innocent.
    â€œIt’s just your imagination,” the voice in her head admonished. “Get a grip!”
    Dawn dropped her hand from his chin. “Almost . . . almost finished,” she whispered shakily, returning her attention to her sketch.
    He returned to his sketch too.
    â€œSo how did you get into this?” he asked out of the blue a few minutes later. “What made you wanna become an artist?”
    She relaxed a little. If there was anything she loved talking about, it was art. “I was doodling even when I was little. I would draw pictures of my mother, my grandmother, and my sisters. I took a few art classes in high school and won some awards for my watercolors and oil paintings. That’s when I figured out what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to be in the art world—in any shape or form. It didn’t matter.”
    â€œBut you have to have a preference. Which would you rather be, gallery director or artist?”
    She chuckled as she drew his lower lip, retracing the line. “Artist, by a long shot. But being a gallery director pays the bills.”
    â€œYou could get a rich guy to pay your bills for you,” he suggested.
    Her gaze shot up from her drawing pad. She narrowed her eyes.
    â€œIf you did, all your problems would be solved,” he continued.
    â€œMaybe . . . but I don’t need a rich man to take care of me.”
    â€œYou mean you don’t need a rich man to take care of you anymore .”
    â€œNo,” she said tightly, not shocked that he had found out about that part of her past. Most people did eventually. She guessed that explained why he was suspicious about her. But it irritated her that he was bringing it up now. “Not anymore.”
    â€œSo why the change?”
    She sucked her teeth and lowered her pad and pencil. “Look, I don’t know if this is really an appropriate conversation to have in front of a class of kids,” she whispered.
    He tilted his head and nodded. “Fair enough.”
    She returned to her sketching.
    â€œSo why’d you stop having rich men pay your bills?” he asked, making her sigh in exasperation and lower her pad yet again. She thought