Page 75 of Marrying Off My Husband

She whisked a streak of red across her sky before she looked at me.

“You can’t date him. He’s mean.”

Her features twisted with amusement as she stifled a laugh.

“Eve,” I hissed again after he turned on music for the experience. “Spencer would be jealous, too.”

“I’m not dating the painter,” she answered.

I nodded. “Good.”

We spent another thirty minutes whispering as we completed our painting of the sea. When Jacques wandered back to assess our work. My stomach rumbled, and by that point, I wasn’t interested in his opinion.

My canvas was a riot of colors, where blue waves crashed into a misshapen shoreline under a sky streaked with too-bold reds and oranges—my attempt at a sunset that looked more like a firestorm.

Eve's, however, captured the gentle lapping of the waves, the gradient sky fading into a soft twilight, each stroke careful and deliberate, reflecting her thoughtful nature.

He stared at it, his finger tapping his chin before he cocked his head. “It is very, uh, abstract.”

My features crinkled at the words, and Eve spun away. The way her hand was pressed over her mouth made me think she was holding back a giggle.

“Now, to yours,” Jacques said as he shuffled to Eve’s.

She cleared her throat, clasping her hands behind her back as she awaited his words.

“Yes, yes, it is…enchante. Beautiful. Like its creator.”

Redness rose in her cheeks as she offered him a demure smile. “Thank you.”

“You have some promise.”

“Oh, thanks,” she said with another shy grin.

“I should give you private lessons, yes? We shall meet Friday evening and I will…guide your hand.”

“Oh, no,” Eve said with a solid shake of her head as I shot her an amused glance from behind him. “No, that’s not…I don’t want a private lesson, but thank you.”

“No?” he pushed. “No charge. Because of your…talent.”

“I can’t,” she said as she lifted her canvas from the easel. “But thank you.”

I grabbed mine, too, thanked the artist as I held back a giggle. We hurried from the studio, setting our paintings in the back of the car before we slid inside.

It didn’t take long for us to burst into laughter.

“Oh, darlin’,” I said with a slap of my steering wheel, “he liked you.”

“Oh, please. He was a wolf.”

“He was,” I said with a nod. “He definitely was. Oh, that private lesson was nothing more than a come on. He wanted to use a different brush.”

“Stop,” she said with a shake of her head as she chuckled. “Goodness, the things you get me into, Lou.”

My smile faltered at the words, my heart pinching a little.

We spent our lunch talking about how I felt physically after what happened in Savannah. I avoided talking about the kiss that had rocked our worlds, instead, focusing on tales of my mother’s previous injustices.

With the afternoon filled with shopping, our conversation focused mainly on dresses, purses, accessories, and jewelry.

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