Chapter 8

When Mal finally looked up, he was smiling, but his face was serious, too. “Do you ever use models? Your hands, in particular, are amazing. Look…what you did here.” He pointed to one sketch without touching the paper. “The marks you included. The scars. They can tell a whole story about these hands.”

“No models, no. I do them from memory.” A slow flush of heat spread through his muscles, better even than the euphoria from making out on the couch. “Those are my grandfather’s. Or what I remember his hands being like, at least. You really like them?”

“I do. I mean, I don’t know as much about sketching as I do photography, but I think you have a lot of talent and even more potential.”