Free Shelter Me: A Shelter Novel by Stephanie Tyler Page A

When I was school-aged, maybe eight or nine, I'd climb out onto the roof and sleep under the sky. My room was small and claustrophobic, and I was always too hot, like my skin didn't fit. I told my school counselor that once."
    "I can't see that going over well."
    "It didn't. I learned to keep my mouth shut and just do what I wanted. A ‘safer to ask for forgiveness than permission’ kind of thing."
    "Funny, but I can't see you doing either."
    "Were you ever a school counselor?" he deadpanned.
    I couldn't help but laugh. Even so, I couldn't get the image of him sleeping alone on a roof at seven, eight and nine out of my mind. "Do you still sleep outside?"
    "I prefer the comforts of a bed, as long as I've got a big enough room. I outgrew a lot of things."
    "But you never forgot," I murmured, more to myself than him.
    "Do you paint to forget?" he asked.
    I painted because I couldn't remember, so technically that wasn't the same thing at all. "No. To immortalize."
    "The plight of all great artists—to leave something of themselves behind," he said softly.
    "I never think of myself as great." I never thought of myself in terms of my talent at all. It didn't work that way for me.
    "Have you always painted?"
    "Yes," I said firmly. It was always the answer in the forefront of my mind. Right or wrong, I felt it was the correct one.
    "I should let you get on with your work," he said.
    I didn't want the conversation to end. I had so many more questions, about his childhood, his job…but my questions would breed questions about my own childhood, and I wasn't ready for that. "Tomorrow," I reminded him.
    "Tomorrow," he told me firmly.

    * * *
    B rayden showed at my door the next morning with breakfast and more importantly, coffee, but with no real explanation of where he'd gone to last night. Instead, he laid out the food on my kitchen island while I tucked my legs under me on one of the stools and sipped the hot, strong coffee with one shot and foamed milk and immediately forgave him.
    "Lucas called last night," I started. Brayden's brows rose. "I didn't tell him about the auction."
    "It was getting tense with the bidding when I left," he offered.
    "You didn't see who won?"
    He gave a rueful smile. "Meghan already called the gallery with a time and place. That's why I'm here—to caffeinate you and deliver you to her within the hour."
    I took back my feelings of forgiveness immediately. "I should never have agreed to this auction," I moaned, feeling very sorry for myself.
    "Definitely not," Brayden agreed.
    "You're the idiot who made me to do it."
    "Since when did you start listening to me?"
    "I should've known it was a trap. Maybe she'll agree to a gag."
    "Kinky."
    I threw my napkin at him and wondered if Meghan would've had the balls to bid if Lucas had been there? And if Lucas knew, would he stop the portrait session? Pay Meghan off so I could get out of it?
    No, I had to deal with this myself, mainly because that last thought annoyed me. I didn't want Lucas to run my entire life. Granted, it made things easier, but I refused to get used to it. He could be gone in a flash. He'd already disappeared for weeks, and I was still annoyed that I'd allowed myself to care.
    "Where am I meeting her highness?" I asked.
    "At my suggestion, at the gallery, in the back room. It's safer for you to be around other people, like my assistant."
    I agreed, then paused. "Wait, did she suggest the back room?"
    Brayden frowned slightly. "Actually, she did."
    I groaned. "Suppose she wants a nude?"
    "She wouldn't," he scoffed.

    * * *
    S he did —a "partial, tasteful nude," Meghan emphasized through her perfectly nude pouted lips, then shrugged out of her dress in one lithe move, calculatedly naked underneath. Casually, she bent down to pick up the material, smoothing it out over the back of the nearest chair before kicking off her heels and settling onto the upholstered bench without a hint of self-consciousness.
    She didn't have a reason to be. I