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Summary
“I usually do weddings. Sometimes anniversaries, sometimes self-portraits.”
“Self-portraits?” The ends of Mike’s lips twitched.
Blood brought a rosy glow to Will’s cheeks. “Portraits—sorry, I meant portraits. I paint other people,” he said, nearly starting to ramble. Watching the man get flustered was, wickedly enough, amusing to Mike.
He laughed. “That’s disappointing,” he said, folding his arms, “I would’ve loved to buy a self-portrait. A portrait of you.”
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In which Mike Wheeler develops feelings for an artist and does stupid shit like hiring him just to get the chance to see him again.