Page 15 of Rose's Ripped Van Winkle

I don’t know how long I stand here, communing with whatever force I’m feeling. Although I was warned about demons and devils a thousand times throughout my childhood, there is nothing evil about this experience.

“Love,” I say, somehow knowing Rip will understand. “It’s like I can love every molecule of the universe from the most beautiful blooms on a rose to the lowliest insect.”

The swirling lessens and finally subsides. I come back to the present, my hand still clutching the magical amulet.

“Wow,” I say shakily.

“Yes. It’s powerful.”

“That felt so wonderful I can’t believe you loaned it to me, even for a moment.”

The half-smile he bestows on me is different from anything we’ve shared until now. He doesn’t need to give me grand gestures. He totally gets me—and accepts me. It’s a powerful feeling.

The way I felt at one with the universe a moment ago? That’s faded a bit. Except for Rip. I still feel inextricably connected to this handsome man I barely know.

Chapter Fifteen

Rip

It’s been over a century since I put the amulet on. I still remember with awe the power of that first moment. Watching Rose experience it filled me with even more affection for her. We share something. It’s deep and exploding with energy and I honestly don’t think it has anything to do with magic. It’s our connection.

I squeeze various colors onto the palette, then step back to watch her paint what was probably a mundane view of the forest to her yesterday. If she wasn’t wearing the amulet, she would have asked why I put such a wide variety of colors on the palette. She knows now. She can see differently.

She’s got a good eye for composition and a steady hand. I mostly watch, commenting on places where she could improve: her brushstrokes, choice of brush for detail work, and shading to bring out the depth of field.

“This is more beautiful than anything I’ve painted before. With each brushstroke, the artwork comes more alive.” Her voice is fuller than I’ve heard it before. She’s more sure of herself. Whether it’s due to my presence or the amulet around her neck, I don’t care. She’s growing, blooming, right before my eyes. It’s a privilege to watch.

She’s so focused on her task, she hasn’t glanced at me in the better part of an hour. When I’m in the middle of a piece, I can go for hours without noticing how long it has been. We have so much in common.

I want to mention it, but that would be manipulative. If I learned anything from my relationship with Isabella, it’s that love can’t be forced.

Finally, Rose steps back and inspects her handiwork, pacing to the left and right to see it from every angle.

“Is this magic, Rip?” Her brow furrows as she looks at me. “When I take the amulet off, will I lose this… gift?”

I want to tell her she never has to remove the necklace because I’ll be at her side, but I don’t. I can’t promise her a future she doesn’t yet want.

“You’ll never see as vividly as you do when you’re wearing it, Rose, but you’ll never completely unsee what the amulet has shown you.”

A brilliant smile lights her face. She sets her brush down and hurries straight into my arms.

“My cult didn’t believe in celebrating birthdays or giving presents, so saying this is the best present I’ve ever received is faint praise. It’s the only present I’ve ever received.”

She shrugs as if what she said was no big deal, although it stabs me to the heart.

“I don’t know how else to describe how much this means to me.”

“I understand.”

Holding her tight for the longest moment, I communicate through touch just how special she is to me. My cock is thickening and I feel her hardened nipples graze my chest, but now is not the moment to take things in that direction.

“I bet you don’t know you have red paint on the side of your nose and a streak of yellow on a thick hank of your hair. Let’s get you washed up.”

We gather our materials and head inside the cottage. Rose hops into the shower to rinse off the paint while I clean up the supplies.

As I put things away, I can’t help but feel a sense of urgency building in me. I want to tell her how I feel about her, but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s not the time yet. She’s still recovering from her past. Rushing her might give me short-term pleasure, but could make her hate me for taking advantage of her. I’m going to have to take my signals from her.

When she emerges from the shower, dressed in a loose-fitting T-shirt and shorts, she looks relaxed and refreshed. It’s past noon, and the cottage is bathed in a warm golden light.

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