Belle (Unbowed Novels Book 1) by Liz Meldon

Author:Liz Meldon [Meldon, Liz]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-09-01T16:00:00+00:00

“Belle—”

“I’m sorry!” I jolted, startling between dreaming and awake at the whisper of Dean’s voice in my ear, only to have him hold me down by a lone finger on my shoulder. Still on the pile of pillows, I blinked quickly, fighting the hold of my midafternoon nap.

“Don’t move,” he murmured gently. “You’re all painted up—though it’s nearly dry.”

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” I told him, an indirect apology. As I recalled, I’d nodded off just after he explained why he had hired an escort—and I had given no response to that. Ugh. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t apologize, Belle. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

I wanted to press a hand to my forehead. Sit up. Scratch at my head. However, my skin felt thick, blanketed in paint. Instinct told me to look down, to confirm the foreign substance coating my body, but I forced my gaze to stay on Dean’s handsome face.

“How long was I out for?”

He removed his finger from my shoulder, the tip coated in shimmery purple. “About three hours.”

“Three hours?”

No wonder I felt so stiff. Suddenly I needed to move. I wiggled my hips from side to side, my butt sore, even cushioned by the pillows, and then did the same with my neck.

“Let’s get you up, shall we?”

“But I don’t want to ruin your work,” I protested as he slipped a hand under my shoulders, his palm’s warmth settling between the blades. “Shouldn’t I wait a bit?”

“No, you’re fine, Belle. The paint dries quite quickly.”

A part of me didn’t believe him, like he was somehow devaluing his work—but that was ridiculous. Maybe I was still half asleep. Clearing my throat, I held out my arms, straight as boards, when Dean lifted me. His lips twitched, as if holding back a smile, and once he had me sitting relatively straight, he gripped the underside of my arm, then heaved me up the rest of the way with his other arm across my back.

The world spun as soon as I was back on my feet, and I immediately toppled into him. The fact that I refused to look down only made things worse.

“You’re all right,” Dean murmured, helping me clumsily shuffle off the pillows and onto the tile again. “Anything asleep?”

“My butt, a little,” I told him as the pinpricks started to hum beneath my skin. “Otherwise I’m okay.”

“Good.”

“Can I see?” My eyes, wide and imploring, shot up to him, and he nodded with a soft sigh.

“Of course.”

“The mirror in my bathroom is bigger, sir.”

A little smile kicked up the edges of his mouth. “That it is.”

We crossed the gallery together, Dean still steadying, his hands on my arm and lower back. His studio felt too bright, the sun beating down on it, and the narrow stairwell was too dark, my eyes struggling to adjust between them. Once we were back in the second-floor hallway, alertness crept over me, and I shed the remnants of my nap with a steadying breath and roll of my shoulders.

Dean had worked on me for almost four hours; I shot him a wary look as we crossed into my bedroom.

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