My smile fell as soon as he bent down to wipe the charcoal off his hands onto a towel and I saw the picture. He grabbed the eraser he’d been using to create the picture on the charcoal-covered paper, and went right back to working within seconds, but those seconds had been enough. There was no mistaking the person he’d created on that paper.

Seeing my face reflected back at me this way was something in itself—it was perfect. But Jagger didn’t draw people. He drew haunting landscapes, buildings, and abstract designs . . . never people. But when I tore my eyes from him and the piece he was finishing, and looked around at the dozens of drawings hanging throughout the part of the room I could see from where I was standing, I realized I was wrong. There were a handful of drawings of people—no, not people . . . person. Just one. Only me.

One of me that was so perfectly rendered that I would’ve sworn he’d taken a picture of me just as I’d stopped laughing. Another . . . and the only word to express the look on my face—and feel of the drawing—was “grief.” Others of me in various stages over the last few years, some where I was looking directly ahead, others where I was looking away—at who knew what. Looking back to the one I’d first seen, all I could think of was passion. And why . . . why would he draw me at all, let alone draw me so that I looked like I was in love with the person staring at the drawing—the person creating the drawing.

I was so wrapped up in what I was seeing, and trying to figure out the whys, that I wasn’t sure when Jagger had noticed me standing there. How long he’d been watching me silently freak out over what was directly in front of me.

My eyes finally locked on his when the music abruptly stopped, and it took me a few moments to understand that he looked terrified. He took calculated steps toward me, his mouth forming my name, but no sound was behind it—and I matched each of his steps with a couple of my own. Those drawings weren’t something I was ever supposed to see, that was clear in his expression. My head shook back and forth as if I could make all this go away, as if I could try to make myself believe the minutes since I’d entered the room hadn’t happened.

“Please, let me explain.”

“What is that?” I asked hesitantly. “Why are you drawing me? Why have you been drawing me?”

“Grey, I . . .”

“You don’t draw people, Jagger, you told me that! You told me you couldn’t, that you were bad at it. Why would you tell me that if it wasn’t true? If you’ve been—” Words failed me as I scrambled for an explanation, but I put my hand out, gesturing toward the large piece as if the gesture alone could finish my sentence. “I don’t understand!” I finally forced out.

Jagger looked at me hopelessly for long seconds—no longer trying to get me to listen to him . . . no longer trying to even speak.

“Why are you drawing me?” I yelled, and Jagger flinched, but remained silent as he shook his head slowly back and forth. “Answer me! I don’t—I don’t get it! I don’t know what to think about what I’m seeing, and it’s freaking me out, Jag!”

Jagger’s head had stopped shaking, his eyes were still boring into mine, and the only sounds coming from his mouth were uneven breaths—like he was struggling to control his breathing.

“Please, tell me,” I begged. “Tell me what I’m seeing and why I’m seeing it. You lied to me, you told me you couldn’t do this,” I repeated. “And then I come in and find all this? I don’t know if I’m supposed to be flattered, or completely creeped out, but right now I’m leaning toward the latter because this is unexpected and beyond weird.”

His eyebrows rose at my last sentence, and his deep voice rumbled softly as he said, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Yes, you do! You told me to let you explain, and I’m waiting for you to explain this! Just tell me why I’m on that paper. Why I’m on others. Why there’s no one else—only me.”

His green eyes dropped to the floor before he turned his head just enough to look at the drawing behind him, but flashed back up to me when he mumbled, “Because I only wanted to draw you.”

“Why, Jagger?” I pleaded when he didn’t continue. “Why would you want to draw me?”

Jagger didn’t respond, and I took two steps away from him—stopping abruptly when he admitted, “Because I couldn’t have you, and this was the only way I could tell you how I felt about you.”

“What?” I breathed.

A muscle ticked in his jaw as he took steady breaths in and out through his nose, and after opening his mouth only to shut it again, he huffed out a harsh breath and put his hands out to the side. “I love you. I’m pretty sure I’ve been in love with you since we were nine, Grey,” he admitted. “I always felt like you were mine . . . I was in love with you long before I knew what it actually meant to be in love with someone.”

“No, you can’t. You can’t be,” I mumbled.

His words from last week flowed through my mind, and I inhaled audibly as I finally heard the double meaning in them. “I’m always moving, Grey. I’m just waiting on you to move with me.”

Jagger’s hands went out in front of him—as if he was reaching for me—and his face turned pleading, but I turned and sprinted toward the front of the building. Grabbing my purse and keys off the counter, I ran outside and got into my car. It wasn’t until I was pulling away that I realized he could have easily caught up with me—and the fact that he hadn’t meant he hadn’t tried to stop me from leaving. And that made the whole situation worse than it already was.