“So, a strong-willed woman isn’t your type?” I lift the paintbrush and make a small stroke right over his pectoral. His chest rises with the touch. I’m leaning forward, making the petals, using the folding table to keep my balance. It’s a little awkward. “I don’t want a shrinking violet,” he says, taking my hand that’s wrapped around the edge of the table and placing it on his thigh. It’s hard beneath my palm. I blink as my hand flexes over the chiseled muscle and look up at him. “But I don’t mind a woman who is willing to learn from me. With me.”
