Distracted √

Distracted: Chapter Thirteen

Finally, Spence turned the cat north. On the voyage home, Erin worked with him on the book, e-mailing McDowell two more chapters. They hadn't kept to her schedule, and Erin found it difficult to keep track of time.

Once the boat was secure in its dock at the Ocracoke marina, Erin tossed her canvas tote bag and her briefcase into the backseat of the SUV. Shopping bags filled the trunk.

Spence lifted the floor mat, picked up the keys and smiled. "Ready to go home?"

Erin thrilled at the words as if it were, indeed, her home. She nodded.

* * *

The first two days, Spence worked in his studio. Erin didn't intrude; she understood the artist's method. She spent her time sightseeing, visiting the lighthouses nearby and shopping in the village. She bought groceries and planned meals, tuning into cooking shows for recipes. Some worked, some didn't. Spence gamely ate all, even chili so hot that tears rolled down his cheeks. "What? I love spicy food!" he protested.

It had been more than a year since she and Aidan had played house. In truth, their relationship dissolved long before their divorce, each more interested in their careers than in each other.

Spence was different, Erin told herself. Not that they had a relationship, but everything about him was larger than life. He was exuberant, vital, virile and always smiling. Around Spence, she felt feminine and desired. He entertained her. He laughed at her jokes, swept her into bear hugs, and ate her cooking with courage.

At night, they snuggled into the hammock and watched the stars. He told her about his work, the artists he admired. Supremely confident in all things, still he was amazed that people paid small fortunes for his paintings.

One morning he asked her to pose for him.

All of a sudden Erin felt shy. As an editor, she had worked hard to not intrude in other people's art. She cleaned, pared, molded but never left her own creative mark. To be a part of Spence's painting would leave a permanent mark, she thought.

"I don't think that's a good idea," she said as she pulled the champagne coverlet up to her chin.

"I do. Stay right here."

He returned with a large canvas, his easel and tackle box of paints. She sat, filled with anxiety. He pushed her back on the bed. "I have to hurry. This is the right light," he added. He arranged her arms behind her head and bent one knee. He placed a pillow under her back, thrusting her breasts in the air, arranged her hair the way he wanted and stepped back to survey. She felt like a pin-up girl and said so.

"That's it, exactly. Are you familiar with Alberto Vargas?"

"No. Who's he?"

"He's an artist from the 1930s and '40s. He painted the most beautiful women in the world. You must have seen his 'Betty Grable Moon over Miami' poster."

"Is that all I am to you? A pin-up girl?"

"Well, you've got all these nice curves and such big, soft ..."

"Alright, I get it. I'm going on a diet tomorrow."

"Oh, no you don't. This painting is going to take a little longer than that."

"You mean I have to lay here all day, naked while you stare at me?"

"And that's different from other days how?"

* * *

By the end of the week, the canvas was taking shape.

Erin was flattered. "I wish I looked that good!"