“What’s your story?” I asked.

He paused, his hands splayed over the tops of his denim-clad legs. I couldn’t help but notice how strong and efficient his hands looked, with long fingers and neatly clipped nails.

“My story?”

The question brought my attention back to his face.

“Yeah, you know, your history.” I pointed to the image in front of me. “This looks like you have graffiti in your past.”

“Oh.” He gifted me with another thousand-watt smile. “I learned the style the old-fashioned way, with a spray can and a blank wall. You know teenagers-too much energy and too little to do. Graffiti beat the other options.”

I responded with a noncommittal grunt. I wasn’t interested in discussing excess teenage energy and what it might cause right now.

“Portrait and graffiti. Don’t see an artist who can do both too often.” I couldn’t help it. I was impressed. And not only could he do both, he rocked at both. I closed my eyes for a few beats, then reopened them. He was still there, and he was still male. He reached up to rub the back of his neck, causing his U2 concert tee to pull tight across his chest-very male.

“You have any problem working with women?” I blurted out.

“No, not at all.” His lips tilted into another dangerous smile. “I like women.”

My heart slammed against my chest. Not good. I so didn’t need this right now-not ever.

Doing my best to pretend every inch of my body wasn’t tingling with awareness, I stood up and held out his portfolio. “Very nice, but I have a few more candidates to consider. I have your number. I’ll be in touch either way.”