Free The Art of Stealing Kisses (Stealing Hearts Book 2) by Stella London

rummages
through a cabinet next to the stove for a frying pan. He finds one
and twirls it in his hand as he turns to me. “That’s
why I need you.”
    I
sit at the counter in a bar stool facing him and watch him as he
cooks. He’s
confident in the stainless-steel clad kitchen, cracking and beating
eggs, toasting bread, frying ham and a few tomato slices as I sip my
coffee. I try not to imagine how many other women he has cooked
breakfast for and just enjoy him doing it for me. And I mean, doing
it for me in every way possible, his white robe creating a triangle
of smooth chest I want to run my hands over, feeling the definition
of his muscles as I move my hands down his abs—
    “So
I have a surprise for you,” St.
Clair says as he puts a plate in front of me.
    “A
surprise?” A
little flurry of excitement flutters in my chest. “What
is it?”
    He
chuckles. “Well
that would ruin the surprise, wouldn’t
it?”
    “Tell
me!”
    “Let’s
eat and then we’ll
go.”
    “Torturer,”
I say, eating
a bite of ham and eggs. It’s
good, of course. Everything St. Clair does is good. Could this man be
any more perfect?
     
    St.
Clair doesn’t
take me far for my surprise, just a few minutes walk away. He turns
of off a bustling street with chic cafes and boutiques, and stops
outside a narrow townhouse. On the ground floor, there’s
a small dry cleaners. I’m
confused. “Is
there something you’re
trying to tell me?”
I joke.
    He
laughs and pulls out a key that opens one of the doors. “Do
you trust me?”
    I
look up into his deep blue eyes and feel it in my gut. I do trust
him. I have from the beginning.
    “Grace?”
He looks
worried.
    “What?”
    “That
wasn’t
meant to be a trick question.”
    “Right.”
I shake my
head. “Of
course I trust you!”
    “Good.
I was beginning to worry there for a second.”
He unlocks
the door beside the dry cleaners and leads me up a flight of narrow
stairs. There’s
another door at the top, and this time after he unlocks it, St. Clair
stands aside. “Go
ahead,” he
grins, looking like he’s
the one about to get a gift.
    I
slowly move past him, then stop in my tracks. It’s
an art studio. A dozen canvases of varying sizes line one wall, and
several easels are set up on the concrete floor that’s
splattered with paint drops and a large spill in some dark color. A
shelf against one wall is stocked with all kinds of paints: acrylics,
oils, watercolors, and brushes of all kinds and shapes. The studio is
filled with light from three windows near the ceiling, and an
industrial sink sits in the corner, lovingly stained by past artists.
    “Is
this space connected to the college?”
I ask, still a little confused. “Are
we meeting the students?”
    “Not
exactly,” he
says, grinning ear to ear. “This
is your surprise. It’s
for you.” He
gestures at the room.
    “For
me?” I
echo dumbly.
    “No,
for your art. So you can work, paint again.”
He gives a
bashful shrug. “Maybe
it will help you find your inspiration.”
    I’m
speechless. “You
got this space for me?”
    “Do
you like it?”
    I’m
fighting tears. This sweet and thoughtful gesture is more than money.
He cares about me and my work. “How
can I ever hope to repay you for all of this?”
I whisper.
    “I
want the first Grace Bennett original in my house.”
He smiles.
“Deal?’
    “Deal,”
I say, my
heart overwhelmed with emotion. He leans down to kiss me, his hands
trailing down my cheek to bring my chin up to meet his lips. Our
tongues brush each other, our breaths mingling, and it’s
electric as always, but there’s
more than heat, too; a deeper connection.
    “Thank
you,” I
whisper when we pull apart.
    He
kisses my forehead. “Thank
you, Grace, my lucky charm.” He
checks his watch. “Now,
I have to get back to some business, but you stay here as long as you
like and see what creativity erupts.”
    When
he leaves I wander the room, lightly touching the paint bottles and
running my fingers