Free How Sweet It Is by Kate Perry Page A

be the cause of that smile.
    Before he could say anything, she turned and walked into the back room, where he kept his easel, paints, and finished canvases.
    “Wait,” he said, hurrying after her.
    But she paused in the doorway of her own accord. He heard her gasp, and when he reached her side, she had a hand covering her mouth.
    He frowned, surveying his studio to try and see it as she did. It was a little messy, but not overly so. A large wooden table held his oil paints and extra brushes. Another table to the side had his watercolor supplies, for those times when he wanted a lighter medium. Against one wall, he put his finished works, several rows deep. Along the other wall, he leaned the paintings that were drying.
    Right now, it was a series he’d done of his friends in their natural habitats. The first abstract was of Marcel, playing his trombone. He’d painted Anne-Marie, elbows leaning on the counter of her café, and the butcher in the market brandishing his cleaver. At the end, there was one of Jasmine, as he also thought of her: alone, in a crowd of faceless people.
    “This …” Viola shook her head.
    He frowned. “I said you wouldn’t like it.”
    “I don’t like it,” she said. “I love it.”
    The tension in his chest eased as he watched her walk up to the canvases and study them closer. “This is Jasmine,” she finally said, glancing at him for confirmation.
    He shoved his hands in his pockets, overwhelmed by the urge to grab her. He told himself it was just because she was admiring his artwork. It was a natural reaction on his part.
    Marcel’s mocking laughter sounded in his head.
    “These are so honest and insightful. Truth and beauty, passion in simple everyday actions,” she went on, oblivious of his plight. She stared at the painting of Marcel. “I can practically hear him playing, but the colors and depth are breathtaking.”
    He grunted, trying not to take on her compliments. He didn’t paint because he wanted kudos; he painted because it was in his soul.
    She whirled to face him. “What are you working on now?”
    A safe enough subject. “I’m finishing up a restoration project.”
    “The restoration of a painting?”
    “No.” He nodded to the front room. “The chair.”
    Her brow furrowed. “You’re restoring a chair ? Why aren’t you painting?”
    “Because I restore furniture.” He crossed his arms and glared at her.
    She nodded slowly. “I see.”
    He could tell she did, and he relaxed a little.
    She studied him steadily. Then she put a hand on his arm. “Let me sell your artwork. I’ll list you under a different name to protect your privacy, if you’d prefer.”
    He shook off her distracting touch. “It’s my art I want to keep private, not my name.”
    “But that’s so wrong .” She shook her head, gesturing to the paintings. “It’s criminal keeping this sort of beauty from the world.”
    He shrugged. “It’s not for sale.”
    “Hmm.” She tapped a finger against her chin, staring at him.
    He hated that he found her adorable, because she was plotting how to convince him. He’d paint her just like that, determination radiating from her face, turning her beauty into something formidable.
    Or he’d paint her naked, sprawled in his bed.
    He scowled, liking the image too much. “You’ve seen it all. You can leave now.”
    Turning, he went to the chair he was working on, hyper aware of Viola rustling around behind him. He reached for his phone and began to play jazz through his Bluetooth speakers, hoping it’d be enough diversion.
    “This is nice,” she said, coming to stand next to him. “I’m surprised you like jazz.”
    “What did you think I’d like?” He reached for a sheet of sandpaper without looking at her—it was safer that way.
    “I don’t know.” She picked up his chisel and turned it around in her dainty hands. “I don’t have much experience with music aside from classical.”
    The way she said it, with sadness and regret,