His Billionaire Bride

Business investor Carrie Morgan is guarded for a long list of good reasons. She’s battled her way to the top of her industry, dealt with enough bad sex to put her off men, and if her painful past has taught her anything, it’s that commitment always ends in heartbreak.

When Carrie’s sister asks her to sit for a portrait—as a bride—she uneasily agrees. Anything for Emmie. Even if it means intimate nightly sessions with her secret fantasy: artist Edwin Prince.

Rejected by his family and treated as temporary by past lovers, Edwin will settle for nothing less than commitment — and wants that and more from the beguiling Carrie Morgan. Startling them both, she allows him to unwind her emotional bindings one intense interaction at a time, until their chemistry builds so high, she’s blinded to the fall.

And the only way out is to break both their hearts.

Read chapter one below!

“Carrie is the bride that’s never meant to be… and the utter charm, respect and abashed confidence of Edwin stole my heart completely.”
– Nen & Jen Reviews 

“There are big life issues in this story but Ms. Ash dealt with them smartly, with love, and touchingly.”
– Gale, Goodreads Reviewer 

“I was in awe with the magnificent writing style the author was able to showcase and her abilities to bring the characters to life.”
– Sheena, Goodreads Reviewer

“Ms. Ash writes sex like a poetry filled with vibrant tension and promises of love that oozes warmth in every word.”
– Sakshi Singh, Goodreads Reviewer

“I can’t even begin to describe how much I loved this book. The characters were very strong, but likeable. Edwin was so in love and Carrie was so afraid to love.”
– Carol, Goodreads Reviewer

“I’ve never read anything like Edwin’s character before. Beta hero written perfectly. And Carrie is the epitome of a feminist. I’ll definitely read more Madeline Ash.”
– Haya Z., Netgalley Reviewer

Carrie Morgan was unprepared for him.

He didn’t belong here—not now.

She halted on the street corner, disarmed at the sight of his back. He stood in the side street not ten strides away. On any other Monday, she found San Diego’s Gaslamp Quarter peaceful in the early morning. A pause before her working week unleashed its howl—a final respite from pressure, hustle, and men puffing their chests at her like territorial pigeons. A pause to help her cope with upcoming interviews, an industry panel, and her fast-approaching startup conference. It was going to be a hell of a fortnight.

And this man, out of context, interrupted her moment of peace. Tightened her skin. Clasped her stomach.

Stunned her with his hair in daylight.

It was the brightest copper of a red fox. Short at the sides, with top curls that always spilled over his forehead. Ridiculous, obviously, but also vibrant and buoyant and breathtaking. It shone, even in the long morning shadows where he stood, gazing up at two stories of brick wall. Two stories of Carrie’s brick wall, more specifically, attached to the building she’d acquired years back for her sister’s live-music venue.

He’d crossed his arms, head tilted to one side. Unaware of the way her pulse rushed in reaction to his presence.

Until now, this redheaded stranger had existed purely within the realm of Emmie’s venue. Carrie tried not to think of him outside of that dim, underground bubble. She had a life to live and little time for daydreaming. But when she was there—when he was there—she’d sit in the low light, concealed by the crowd, and just…watch.

He was usually dancing, committing every scrap of energy to the cause. Body lean and spare, uncatchable like the glint of light on a sword, undeniable like the snap of powerful fingers. She heeded the inherent warning.

Look, don’t disrupt.

On those nights, she’d arrive braced for the sight of him to blow lust into the flattened remains of her sexuality. Seeing him was always a full-bodied gasp—a shimmering discomfort as she adjusted to the over-inflation of feeling. In her thirty years, she’d never reacted to someone the way she did to him.

Alarm pounded in her rib cage. He was too volatile to leave that bubble—she couldn’t predict him—yet, he’d slipped out, a fox in the wild, his body stiffening, head lowering and angling sideways, as if he sensed her on the street corner behind him.

She held her breath as he turned—saw her.

“Morning,” he called, raising a hand.

She should look away. Should put cold-shouldered strides between them. She should get up to Emmie’s apartment with the bag of toasted sandwiches that were growing colder by the second.

She should—

“Thanks for agreeing to this,” he said, making his way toward her, shoulders loose, features bright.

Confused, she lifted her chin.

He halted near her, two steps away at most, his unprecedented closeness seeming to tug her stomach right out of her middle. Taller than she’d expected, she had to tip her face up to hold his stare as his scent lapped over her. Faint, torturous.

“Emmie didn’t think you would.” He glanced toward the building again, and the weight of his hair toppled to one side. He slid a hand in his pocket, and her attention caught on the elbow that jutted outward. She wanted to…hold it. Drag it closer, and him along with it.

Her grip on the breakfast bag tightened.

“More accurately,” he continued, “she said, there’s no chance in hell Carrie will ever say yes.”

He’d talked to Emmie about her? She marveled at that as he studied her again, amusement shining on his pale, well-cut face.

“But it’s going to be compelling,” he said, nodding. The longest of his curls brushed against his lashes. “I’ve got some ideas.”

She gave a curt half-nod in return. He had green eyes. Like sage leaves or frosted grass, made bolder by a similar shade in his striped shirt. He carried a brown leather satchel that matched his loosely laced brown boots, and with those black jeans, his aesthetic was a cultivated kind of casual. Reverent of his youth. Unabashedly hipster.

She died a little inside at how hot it made her.

She hadn’t spoken yet—she died a little more at that, though she’d be damned if she knew what he was talking about.

His gaze turned curious. “You look confused.”

Hauling herself together, she said levelly, “Then my face is working properly.”

There was a pause.

“Oh, man,” he said with a grin. “I wasn’t even close.”

She frowned even as his grin devastated her. “What?”

“Your first words to me,” he said. “I was way off.”

That registered with a thud. “You’ve thought about my first words to you?”

Those sparkling eyes held hers. “The woman who watches me like a wolf across the dance floor?” He paused, quirking a brow. “Yeah. I’ve thought about it.”

Exposed, the so-called wolf in her hunched. “Twice,” she deflected coolly.

Twice, he’d caught her watching.

“Please,” he said, a smile slanting across his mouth. Color tinged his cheeks, but her attention snagged on lips far more sensuous than they had any right to be. He was too young—mid-twenties at most—to have sensuality like that in his arsenal.

“Please, what?” she asked, irritated at her own susceptibility.

“You watch me all the time.”

“Hardly.” Her alarm grew. This was—she didn’t like this. “It’s like a muted television. My eyes are drawn to you because you’re moving, not because you’re interesting.”

He gave a single laugh. “Wow, thanks.”

“And your hair,” she said.

His brows bunched. He waited, as if she might elaborate.

She didn’t.

“I get the TV comparison,” he said, looking down to where he toyed with a buckle on his satchel. “Except you look like you’d rip the throat out of anyone who touched me. So it doesn’t feel quite the same.”

She scoffed, nudged off-balance by his observations. “I wouldn’t rip—”

“You wouldn’t have to,” he interrupted, gaze still downcast.

“You’re flattering yourself.” She took in his features while he wasn’t paying attention. He had freckles. Across his cheeks and forehead. She melted inside. “You’re not my type.”

His brows flicked up, though his gaze remained on his satchel. “You have a type?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“My type is whoever I’m attracted to,” he said. “So, yes on a technicality.”

That distracted her instantly.

Did that include her?

It didn’t matter she’d never act on such attraction. That it would amount to nothing. She needed to be his type. She studied him closely, circling the uncertainty of his attraction. His cheeks were flushed, his gaze still downcast. Lips parted, breath…a little uneven.

“Why are you always looking at me like this?” His gaze lifted to the knot of her tie. Daffodil yellow, just like her heels, to contrast her tailored black suit, the soft black shirt underneath. Awareness tightened in her throat as his attention dragged up to her chin. “And why haven’t you ever spoken to me?”

She shifted. “Why would I speak to you?”

“I don’t know,” he said quietly, eyes lifting to her mouth. “Because it’s considered polite to introduce yourself before stripping someone bare?”

“You’re—” She cut off, suddenly realizing he had control of this conversation in a vice grip.

“Wrong?” His gaze slid to the strap of his bag. “Tell me what you want to do to me right now, and we’ll find out.”

Her pulse heaved in her chest. She’d never spoken to someone like this. Raw with honesty, two minutes in. She didn’t do raw honesty two years in. She didn’t do it at all.

“I want to make you stop talking,” she said through her teeth.

His lips twitched upward. “In which case, you’re going to have to stop looking at me.” The request was a little breathless. “It’s distracting.”

She jerked her head around, staring off down the street. Her pulse was going to pieces. She’d come here to share breakfast with her sister. Not have this man unravel her secret desire in several conversational twirls.

“Thanks,” he said from behind her. “You’re more intense close up.”

She’d been told that before. Another reason she copped resentment at work. As a prominent business investor, she provided capital for cutting-edge startup businesses—and the male-dominated private investment industry didn’t exactly save women seats at the head of the table. Or anywhere at the table. Hence the barrage of pigeon chests.

“New topic,” he said. “I’m getting the vibe Emmie hasn’t spoken to you yet.”

She continued to glare away from him. “Not in relation to you.” An oversight she was going to raise with her sister very shortly.

“She asked me to get here at seven.”

Carrie snapped her face toward him. “We always have breakfast at seven.”

And with that, she hoped he’d realize he’d got the time wrong and leave Carrie and Emmie to their weekly routine.

Instead, he nodded and said, “Yeah, she told me. Let’s go up.”

Together, because if he wasn’t going to leave, why would he give her a minute to regain control?

“Fine.” Carrie gestured for him to lead the way, resolutely avoiding his gaze as they crossed the street.

As suspected—he was way too volatile to be roaming free.

She unlocked the door to the building and then held it open for him to enter the foyer. Carpe Vesperum, Emmie’s live-music venue, was down at basement level, while double doors to the right of the foyer led to the ground floor’s café. Neither were open at this hour, though café staff would be arriving soon to prepare for a midmorning open. She unlocked the café and led him—the man whose name she realized she didn’t know, despite indeed wanting to tear those clothes from his fine hipster body—to the rear, where a staircase led to the private residence on the first floor.

“Emmie,” she said loudly, letting herself into her sister’s apartment. The open kitchen and living space were unoccupied. Carrie halted beside the kitchen counter, staring at the closed bedroom door. “You’re needed.”

It was a few seconds before the door opened. A young man poked his head out, his black hair rumpled, and his bare shoulder blanketed in a fishnet tattoo. Emmie’s husband, who appeared both amused and exasperated. “She’s in the shower. She said you can start eating.”

“Bran,” Carrie said. “Who is the man behind me?”

Bran’s gaze shifted to the redhead. “Hey,” he greeted, grimacing apologetically. Then he looked back to Carrie. “A regular downstairs, I think. Why? I didn’t think you noticed other people.”

She narrowed her eyes.

Bran raised a brow, pushing his hair off his face.

With a huffed noise of dismissal, she moved into the kitchen to reheat the toasted sandwiches.

“Emmie told me you made the list again this year,” Bran said. “Congratulations.”

“Go back to bed,” she said without sparing him a glance.

“This is her being humble.” Apparently for the redhead’s benefit. “Make enough coffee for me.” That was for hers.

The door closed.

The sound of running water in the bathroom stopped, suggesting Emmie would only be a few minutes, so Carrie put the grill on to reheat breakfast and the kettle on to make morning brews. She pulled plates and mugs from the cupboard, coffee and tea from the pantry, and then noticed the clean dishes in the dishwasher. Drawing out the top slide, she started putting them away.

Softly, the true source of her attention cleared his throat from the opposite side of the kitchen counter. “Are you…ignoring me?”

“No.” She stacked several plates, eyes down.

“Sure?”

“It’s a companionable silence.”

“Really? Because your silence feels equipped with a laser alarm system I feel I should be careful about triggering.”

She paused, hand on the cupboard handle. “I don’t know you.”

“Yet, you know that guy and this apartment. And I don’t.”

“Meaning it’s my social role to make you feel welcome?” She shot him a glance. He stared back, one palm resting on the counter, satchel still over his shoulder. Out of place. A thread of guilt wove through her, but it was thin and easy to ignore.

His mouth hitched drily. “Don’t do social roles?”

“Not if I don’t want to.”

That hitch turned into a puzzled smile. “You’re perfect.”

She scowled. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?” he asked, pushing off the counter and making his way over to the window bay beside Emmie’s dining table.

Carrie closed the cupboard. Hard. “You jump around conversation too fast.”

He eyed her as sunlight channeled onto him. “So, catch me.”

“Stop that, too,” she said. “That…that—”

“Flirting?” His brows arched. Playfully. He was playing with her. This brazen cub.

“Yes,” she snapped. “I don’t do that.”

Amused incredulity enriched his voice. “You don’t flirt?”

“No.”

“Oh, I think you do.” Ducking his head to one side, he lifted the satchel strap off his shoulder. He set the bag at his feet. Then he ran a hand through his hair, and her attention pounced on the movement. The curls moved beneath his raking fingers, exposing a gradient of color, copper roots curling into golden tips, like saffron leeching into water.

Or a phoenix caught mid-combustion as this man was reborn into her every fantasy.

“You like it?” His eyes glowed.

“What?” It came out as a snap.

“My hair.”

“Is that what it is?” she said. “I’m seeing spots.”

He grinned. “See, you do flirt,” he said. “But instead of putting yourself out there, you test whether your mark will put themselves out there for you.”

He wasn’t her mark. And… “I am not testing you.”

“More than you realize,” he said smoothly. “But okay. You can keep ignoring me.”

Jaw clenching, she returned to the dishwasher. “I wasn’t ignoring you.”

“Yet, I am putting myself out there for you,” he said. “In case you think I’m this forward with everyone.”

She didn’t answer, didn’t so much as look at him as satisfaction bloomed in her. A misplaced reaction, unfair to them both, but she couldn’t seem to help it. He stood in silence, a fiery glow in her periphery, as she checked under the grill and poured boiling water into the coffee plunger and a mug with Emmie’s teabag. Eventually, the bathroom door opened, and Emmie emerged with a towel wrapped around her hair. Her attention immediately darted to the flaming beacon across the room, eyes widening, before she relaxed with a familiar smile.

“Prince, hey,” she said. “You made it.”

Carrie’s gaze sped between them. Registering no obvious joke, she turned on him. “What did she just call you?”

A laugh burst from him. “Prince.”

She raised a finger. “No.”

“Yes,” he said, but mischief lit his eyes.

“I reject that as your real name.”

He grinned. “Ah, but a prince doesn’t tell just anyone his real name.”

“Pretty sure that’s a dragon.”

His eyes widened. “Then it must be my name.”

Carrie rounded on her sister. She couldn’t handle much more of this. “Help me.”

“It’s his last name,” Emmie said, rolling her eyes.

Carrie glared at him accusingly. “Supply a different proper noun or I’ll choose one for you.”

“You don’t want her to do that.” Emmie wandered toward the kitchen.

Those sensual lips curved upward. “Edwin.”

His every glint and glamour rushed to fill that name, embodying it, owning it. A stranger no more. Carrie switched off the grill and plated up breakfast, sacrificing her second sandwich to good manners by holding out the plate to—Edwin.

Surprise darted across his light-filled features, but he didn’t hesitate to swoop in and relieve her of the plate. “Thank you.”

She tugged her hand away before they could make contact. Then she cocked her head at her sister. “Explain why he has lots of ideas about something I’m never going to agree to.”

Emmie and Edwin exchanged a glance. Carrie interpreted it as camaraderie in the face of assured destruction.

“Okay, it’s just an idea and you can say no…like I’m absolutely sure you will.” Emmie sat on a stool on the other side of the counter. Edwin did the same as he inhaled the sandwich. Suspicious, Carrie cast her attention from one to the other. Emmie picked up her peppermint tea, cupping it in front of her. “It’s to do with my obsession.”

Carrie’s stance softened. Her sister had lived through so much. She’d struggled and endured. Her peculiar wedding obsession was tied up in past pain. Although Carrie couldn’t relate to her sister’s weakness for weddings, Carrie would never, ever criticize it.

“You know it hasn’t gone away since Bran and I got married.” The tea steamed over Emmie’s chin. “And even though I can wear my dress, look through photos and videos, and go to open days, I really want something…visible. Something I can look at every day and feel satisfied, just in that moment.”

Carrie’s gaze slipped to the white lacy symbol of purity displayed on a seamstress’s mannequin in the corner of the living room.

“More visible,” Emmie said.

Carrie frowned as she sipped her coffee.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” Emmie continued. “And I’ve decided I want a mural on the outside of the building. A big one. Taking up the entire side wall.” She paused, waving a hand in the air while her eyes glazed over. “A bride.”

“Is that all?” Relief discarded the breath Carrie had been holding. “Em, do whatever you want. This building is as good as yours. I’ve told you that.”

Emmie focused on her. “Great, thanks,” she said, far too lightly.

There was more.

“Actually.” Emmie glanced at Edwin, who raised his brows with a nervous smile. “I knew you’d say that, so I’ve already asked Edwin to paint it.”

Carrie allowed her attention to return to him. Those green eyes were waiting—clear, warm—and reaction sucked sharply at her chest.

Of course he was an artist. He embodied the essence of a masterpiece—the intangible quality that beguiled people into purchasing art because they knew the instant they clapped eyes on a particular piece, it belonged to them.

Carrie had known.

The first time she’d seen him.

Heat toyed around her collar as she asked, “You paint?”

“His style is brilliant,” Emmie said as he nodded. “I don’t want sweet and innocent. It’s street art, so it needs to have an edge. And he’ll do it right.”

“It’s good timing, too,” he said, his plate now empty. “My final portfolio for college is almost due, so I can use this as a sidepiece for the exhibition.”

Carrie hid her dismay. She was thirty—and he was in college.

“Great.” She refused to ask what any of this had to do with her.

“And,” Emmie said, grimacing, “Edwin would like you to sit for him.”

“Sit for the painting? As a bride?” Carrie almost laughed. “No chance in hell.”

Emmie slumped on the stool. “See?”

“Verbatim.” He flicked his gaze to Carrie. “Why not?”

“Why won’t I pose for you?” She didn’t have to think. “I’m busy. Overcommitted. I have meetings, mentoring, launches, dinners, and awards. And my conference is next weekend, Emmie. Twelve days. It needs to go well—my reputation depends on it.”

Carrie hadn’t eaten lunch for weeks, because by the time she had a spare second to register her hunger, it had been dark outside.

“Besides, I do not want my likeness anywhere in or on my own property.” She lifted a hand with two fingers raised, counting for emphasis as she raised another. “I refuse to wear one of those dresses.” A fourth finger. “I’ve just placed in California’s top-ten list of the most successful women in business. With all that attention, you want me to let you enlarge my face on the side of a building? No. The whole thing is annoying enough. I don’t want another reason to be asked for interviews.”

Edwin startled her by laughing. “Wait,” he said. “You’re annoyed you ranked in a list of California’s most successful women?”

She eyed him. “Yes.”

He laughed again.

She turned to Emmie. “I’m not doing it.”

“That’s okay.” Emmie nodded. “I’ll help Prince find someone else.”

“Hang on.” Edwin’s voice was rich with humor. “We can work around your schedule. Maybe in the evenings? Three sittings, four max. You don’t have to wear a wedding dress. I can add that another way. And I’ll change your features enough so it’s not recognizably you.”

“Then why do you need me at all?”

“Your energy.”

She arched a brow.

“Exactly.” He pointed at her. “I need that—power.”

Tension folded in her shoulders, twisting down her back. “I don’t see how you’d manage to capture it,” she said, eyes on him. “If you painted me looking down or away, I’d never forgive you, and if I looked at you for too long, you’d find it—what was it—distracting?”

“This proximity is new,” he said, holding her stare. “But I’m adjusting quickly.”

So she could see. “Good for you.”

She still wasn’t doing it.

The bedroom door opened as Carrie started eating. Bran, dressed and serious, crossed the living space to Emmie’s side. He slid a gentle hand across her back and kissed the top of her head, before reaching for the coffee Carrie had poured him earlier.

“What’s going on?” he asked quietly.

“Carrie.” Emmie nudged his plate closer to him as he sat beside her. “She said no.”

Bran shot an amused glance at Edwin. “Em did warn you, man.”

“He was so sure.” Emmie flicked an interested glance at her sister. “So curiously sure.”

Carrie didn’t flinch. “And wrong.”

“I want your energy,” Edwin said. “You have plenty. We’re all drowning in it right now. You won’t miss it.”

She eyed him, but she didn’t answer.

“And who knows?” A sly glint lit his eyes as his lips lifted. “Maybe it’s the opportunity you’ve been waiting for.”

That was precisely her problem.

Swallowing, she raised a hand to her hair, needlessly adjusting the short spikes.

Time wasn’t the issue. Carrie’s work always came second to her family, and if Emmie wanted this mural, Carrie would ordinarily do whatever she could to help. She’d wear a white dress. She’d even risk accusations of narcissism by having her face on the side of her own building. But—

But Edwin.

She might recover from this aberration if he returned to the confinement of Emmie’s venue. Carrie could resume measuring out the time spent near him, like pouring a small glass of her favorite sweet strawberry wine. She wanted the whole bottle. But if she only let herself consume what she put in the glass, then things wouldn’t end badly. Just like with him. She allotted herself little shots of him, because there was only so much she could handle before he made her dizzy—before it would seem like a good idea to approach, put her mouth to his, and drink her fill.

Sitting in his studio, with no crowd between them, no music, no distractions, would risk that control. Tear it right out of her hands. Toss it pointedly onto Edwin’s lap.

This was not a good idea. This was—

Fantasy.

Fantasy had her blinded. She was reacting to her imagined impression of him. No crowd, no music, no distractions? That wasn’t the setting for a forbidden seduction. It was the unflattering light of reality she’d need in order to move on. He’d been an infuriating distraction recently. The sight of him. The thought of him. Instead of blowing the top off her self-control, sitting for him would reveal the man behind the enigma. And there was no way he could live up to the ideal in her head.

Maybe it was the opportunity she needed.

“Yes,” she said, voice flat. “Fine.”

“What?” Emmie sounded startled. “You’ll do it?”

Carrie would let this fiery prince capture her energy to wrangle into a bride for public viewing. She’d let him observe her for hours on end, as she’d done to him. And as he did so, she would regain the control he’d taken from her over the past few months. She would be able to think clearly again, concentrate at work, and focus on what was important.

“Yes,” she said firmly.

“Awesome.” Edwin practically leapt off his stool. “I am so late for class.” Grinning, he swung his satchel over his shoulder. “See you tonight?”

“I have plans.” That would consist of bracing for the loss of this gleaming crush. “Tomorrow, after work.”

“Sure.” He turned his smile on Emmie, brows rising. “Twenty for yes, wasn’t it?”

“She also said no,” Emmie pointed out, despite her continued incredulity.

“I have arguments,” he said, bolting across the apartment. “But luckily for you, I’ve also got to run.”

He was gone before anyone could say goodbye.

Carrie blew out a breath. “Thanks for the ambush.”

“I meant to tell you yesterday,” Emmie said, wincing. “But you were doing conference prep, and you didn’t answer my calls.”

“Oh.” Carrie hadn’t. “Right.”

“He seems nice,” Bran said, and there was something in his voice, an amused catch, that had her tensing and backtracking to replay conversation since she’d arrived. A closed bedroom door meant nothing if the walls were thin. “Seems like he really puts himself out there for you.”

Over his coffee mug, his laughing eyes met her glare.

“I’m missing the subtext.” Emmie appeared at Carrie’s side, arms sliding around her waist in a hug, face on Carrie’s shoulder blade. “And you really need to tell me why you agreed.”

“My energy.”

“Ha.” Her sister squeezed her middle. “Nice try.”

“It’ll be good for me,” she said. “A break from work.”

“True,” Emmie said. “You work too much.”

Carrie nodded, her head spinning. In less than thirty minutes, her lust had been exposed, close contact scheduled. Her resolute grip on her own life had been pried open.

But she would regain it, and life would go on.

One fantasy lighter.

***

“I’ve found my bride.”

The round of hot drinks he placed on the table overshadowed Edwin’s announcement. His friends both pounced, abandoning their lecture notes for fuel, while Edwin dropped into a plastic chair outside their regular college café, slinging his bag onto the ground.

Edwin glanced at the surrounding trees, the tables of other students, and wondered when Carrie was going to give his breath back. He’d quietly gasped for air the entire trip from Emmie’s place to campus, and he hadn’t fared much better in his early morning class.

“Mexican mocha,” he said to Rose, then jerked his head toward Liam. “Soy cappuccino.”

“Thanks,” Liam murmured with a sidelong glance.

“Yeah, thanks, Prince.” Rose sipped her mocha, rummaging in her pack with her other hand. She extended a gift in return—cold toast wrapped in foil. The fare of poor college students.

He accepted it. “Love a home-cooked meal.”

“And I love celebratory beverages,” she said, leaning back in her wheelchair. “In honor of your bride, I assume? Thank God, I’ve gotta say. I was seriously freaking out.”

He rolled his eyes with a smile. “I was never going to ask you.”

“You want to eclipse your class at this final exhibition.” A finger lifted sternly from her takeaway cup. “You’d have totally asked me if you couldn’t find anyone else.”

“Painting a portrait is too intimate.” He unwrapped his second breakfast. “It can do weird things to a friendship.”

Wincing, she glanced between him and Liam. “You don’t say.”

Sensing their attention, Liam looked up with a soft, “What?” His gaze slid from Rose to Edwin, and mild alarm creased his forehead. “What?” he asked again, setting his phone on the table.

Rose’s brows went up into her blonde fringe. “Prince found his bride.”

A mighty bride who would challenge the world from her wall.

Liam eyed him, lounging in the rubbishy outdoor chair with the art-student abandon Edwin had once admired. “Who is it?”

“She,” Edwin said, “is the wolf.”

He’d pushed Carrie. She’d let him flirt. Let him tease. Let him point out the desire in her eyes. Emmie seemed to have no idea how Carrie watched him. Didn’t understand the tension, the attraction, the unspoken connection this painting would tear open.

Tomorrow, after work.

His friends were gaping.

“Like, the actual wolf?” Rose’s blue eyes were wide with disbelief. “Emmie’s sister?”

“Yeah,” Edwin said, picking up his soggy toast before rolling it up.

“With the suits, heels, and general countenance of will-everyone-just-fuck-off?”

“That’s the one.”

Rose was incredulous. “You’re going to paint the woman who always looks like she’ll hunt you down and take you right there on the dance floor?”

Heat rushed up his neck, and his hands fumbled. “Jesus, my sensibilities, Rosie.”

“Oh, your blush is back!” She drank again, eyes alight. “You two are going to have so much sex.”

His heart thumped hard. He swallowed without answering.

“How the hell?” Liam demanded, twisting to face Edwin properly. “You’ve never spoken to her before.”

Edwin bit into his scroll of peanut butter toast. “I told Emmie I wanted Carrie,” he said around the mouthful. “And she made it happen.”

“I still can’t—I’ll believe it when I see it,” Rose said, raising her palms.

He grinned, because as his flat mate, she would.

“I thought you liked her.” Liam was staring at him hard.

Liked was the wrong word. Edwin didn’t know Carrie enough to like her.

But he allowed for her.

In his periphery, his ego, his near future.

For months, he’d pretended not to notice her attention. If she wanted to do more than watch him, she would. And she hadn’t, so he’d left it. He hadn’t made contact, even as her gaze elicited reactions inside him like heat rippling over embers. Week after week, he’d gone home from a night out burdened by incompletion.

An instant was all it would take. If she so much as beckoned, he’d be at her side. A disempowering truth—until he’d realized he captivated her without even acknowledging her existence. His presence alone was her hook. On the trip home this morning, he’d finally thought to consider what would happen if he beckoned her.

No wonder he couldn’t catch his breath.

He said, “I do like her.”

Liam arched a disapproving brow. “You’ve forgotten last time?”

Edwin’s gut curled. The last time he’d painted a portrait of someone he knew. Six months ago. Despite being bold in color, striking in mood, it revealed a hesitation in the subject. Around the shoulders, the mouth, and the eyes. A reticence of heart. One of his best works yet.

“No.” His voice was cool. “I distinctly remember telling you before we started—I paint what I see, not what you hope I see.”

Liam looked away, shaking his head. “So selfish.”

“Liam,” Rose murmured. “Honestly.”

“He’s an idiot for painting her.” Liam packed up his books with angry movements, shoving papers into a stack, heedless of order. “Whatever he sees, she won’t like it. He can’t be objective. It’s embarrassing.”

“He’s incredible,” she argued, “and you know it.”

“Incredible at exploiting the power dynamic between artist and sitter.” Liam stood, facing Edwin as he stepped around his chair. Sliding by so close he towered over him, thighs brushing Edwin’s forearm. “You’ll regret this.”

Insult balled Edwin’s fingers as he ignored him.

What Liam failed to understand, even now, was the interchange between painter and sitter—that they’d both contributed to that final piece. Portraiture wasn’t objective. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t about painting a physical likeness. Liam had evidently expected a painting to showcase his brooding mystery, his hidden depths, among other delusions of grandeur. But Edwin didn’t paint how a subject saw themselves or how they wanted to be seen.

“She’ll resent you,” Liam said now, because he hadn’t liked what Edwin had seen in him. “You’ll never have a chance with her.”

“Piss off,” Edwin said, eyes on his clenched fists.

Liam’s bag pushed against Edwin’s shoulder as he stormed away.

Edwin sat very straight, his spine stiff. “I can’t handle him much longer.”

“Just until the end of semester.” Rose had been friends with Liam since high school. As her flat mate, Edwin had been drawn into the friendship, but since his and Liam’s falling out, Edwin had to deal with sharing Rose. Thankfully, Liam had plans to move to LA after graduation, so their awkward overlapping friendship wouldn’t last forever. Rose’s tone changed, growing softer. “Are you ever going to show me?”

The painting that had appalled Liam—that had taught Edwin the true power he wielded in representing others. The balance he had to strike between gratifying the subject and disgracing them. The fragility of their self-awareness. A little too much one way, and it might well be a glamour shot, and too much the other way—

And Edwin held a mirror to flaws he’d perceived—flaws they refused to acknowledge.

“I sold it,” he said, meeting her gaze. “I couldn’t stand it.”

Couldn’t stand the reminder of his own naivety.

“Gah,” she said, then clicked her tongue. “Look, you’ll hate me for saying this, but he might have a point.” She raised her palms at his glare. “I think you should be careful. Whether you meant it to or not, your portrait hurt Liam. You don’t want to do that again. Not to mention the wolf has a reputation and influence, so you need to be careful which parts of her you reveal. The stupidest things can ruin careers. If she doesn’t like it—if her industry doesn’t like it—I suspect the consequences will be worse than those of our good friend here.”

Edwin scrunched up the empty foil. “I’ll be careful.”

“This is a risk,” she said, brows rising.

He knew that, too. He hadn’t suggested Carrie on impulse. He’d thought about it for weeks. Could have deliberated forever, except he wanted to incorporate the mural into his portfolio, which he had just under three weeks to finish before the final exhibition, along with his dissertation. The exhibition would attract gallery owners seeking fresh artists to represent—and he knew capturing Carrie’s energy would gain their interest.

But if he got it wrong, it could cost him hers.

Rose drained the last of her mocha, then held up the empty cup in a salute of thanks. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

He took in a fast breath as he flashed her a smile. “I can confidently tell you, Rosie, that I absolutely do not.”