Turning to a clean page in his sketchbook, Brody starts drawing Evie with quick, short strokes of his pencil. She leans over, fascinated, as the outlines of her face appear on the paper. It doesn’t take much for her to recognize herself -- the moment he’s finished with the eyes, she squeals in delight. “That’s me!”

With a grin, Brody keeps working. The pencil moves almost by itself, his hand simply holding it as lines stream from the lead to form the basic structure of the girl before him. He glances up at her to assess the next area he’ll draw, then his gaze returns to the page to bring her doppelganger to life. When he looks up again, Evie strikes a pose: back straight, head cocked, smile firmly in place, as if he’s taking her picture and not drawing it.

“You can relax,” he tells her, sketching without pause. “I’m not drawing how you really look but how I see you in my mind.”

“Draw me like this,” she says, propping one hand on her hip and tilting her head in the opposite direction, her eyes rolled back. Then she switches sides, opening her mouth in a surprised O with her eyes wide. “Or like this. Or this!”

From somewhere behind them, a man calls out, “Evie?” An undercurrent of fear laces his voice, and he raises it when he says her name a second time. Then, sharply, relieved but annoyed, “Evie!”

Sitting up on her knees on the stool, Evie waves frantically. “Daddy! Here I am! Come look at my drawing!”

Brody throws a look over his shoulder and sees Evie’s father -- about his age, handsome in a romantic, Harlequin book cover sort of way. The man has fair hair like Brody’s, but his is obviously natural, not dyed. It falls back from his angular, pretty-boy face in waves. As he approaches the counter where Brody and Evie are sitting, there’s a second or two where Brody envisions him striding slowly, eyes smoldering, the hint of a smile toying around his full lips, as a sultry soundtrack plays in the background.

That’s the problem with being artistic, Brody’s found. His mind sees things that don’t exist, and now the damn image of this guy sashaying through the restaurant is going to stick with him until he draws it down. That’s the only way to get the mental pictures out of his head, put them on paper instead. When he’s finished Evie’s portrait, though, then he has the birds he wants to finish up…

“Hey, little lady,” the guy says as he nears the counter. “What are you doing over here?”

Brody hunches his shoulders -- he knows what’s coming. The look that says, What the hell are you doing with my daughter? The frown, the hand grabbing her arm a little too tightly, the tug to get her away from him. Come on, Evie, he might as well say. I don’t want you hanging around freaks like him.

But there’s none of that, surprise surprise. “Daddy, look!” Evie waves the picture of the Angry Birds in front of her father’s face. “Brody drew it for me! Look!”

Brody stays focused on the portrait he’s working on, but he steals little glances of Evie’s father from the corner of his eye. Close up, the man is really attractive in a commercialized way Brody has always hated to admit he likes. Smooth skin, flawless complexion, nice definition to his arms and hands -- not muscular, but not scrawny, either. Wholesome. Handsome.

And so totally out of my league.