Page 3 of Cocky Secrets

I cross to place my hand on hers. “Never. I will always buy whatever art supplies I need fromyou.” Backtracking to the brushes I coveted, I lift one from its coffee tin display and admire it, dragging my forefinger over feathery bristles.

Our family by blood and otherwise, all Ciphers included, shop at the local stores, especially since there are so few. We are not rich, by any means, so I am forced to buy new paint one at a time, whenever I’ve saved enough of the spending money given me. I don’t mind. Waiting makes acquisition that much more delicious.

Butthe wayshe said it scratches into my awareness, and I look over to find Viola is frowning at her numbers, sketching slowly a doodle in the right corner of the page rather than applying more.

“How has business been, Vi?”

“Dismal,” she whispers, mind someplace else, somewhere darker.

A frown pierces my heart. “How dismal?”

“We need tourists.” She motions to shelves upon shelves of crystals, leather-bound notepads, pottery from locals beside the normal Louisiana souvenirs of keychains, shot glasses, spoons, t-shirts, caps. “I have trouble making rent much less a profit to live on.” She sighs. “I should’ve bought this property back when Ihad the chance, years back.” A forced smile clears a long exhale. “I’m staying afloat. Don’t you worry about ol’ Vi!”

Placing my new paint and brush in front of her, I ask, “Does anybody buy the art supplies besides me?”

“Ever since the schools lost funding for art classes, no. Not really. A few children, now and then. Budding artists, I hope. But enough to warrant new stock? I’m afraid not, honey. I’m not sure how long I can stay in town.”

I whisper, “Oh,” struck by the news. Since I was home-schooled, I have no idea what public education offers. “Why would they defund art classes? We need art to survive.”

Bells attached to the front door by yarn sing the arrival of a new customer, but I don’t look to see who it is, my focus on the subject combined with the trouble of tugging cash from my left front pocket of too-tight jeans.

Viola greets the newcomer, “Good afternoon!”

A throaty voice answers, “Afternoon Vi,” inspiring me to steal a sidelong glance toward the door.

Silhouetted by floods of light from a low-hanging sun is an approaching swagger so slow my spine straightens as I drop bills on the counter. My interested gaze slides up from black work-boots over jeans that fit in all the right places and a white T-shirt scratched with oil like he’s been under the belly of a car engine, muscles undulating with each step. Full lips tug to his right as eyes of amber drink me in, his hair a tousle of dark-chocolate that thick fingers forgot to comb. “And you are?”

I blink, aware of the unignorable fact that my nipples have peaked with interest, too, halter-top so snug and breasts so small I didn’t feel a bra was necessary.

The energy emanating from his walk.

His easy-going confident stare.

Those bedroom eyes.

Oh.

He asked me a question.

I swallow.

“I’m Sage.”

“Sage…?”

All that he ishas taken me off guard, so I unwillingly, unknowingly, without hesitation, give my last name. “Martinez.”

“You visiting from somewhere?” The sheer guttural nature of his voice is awe-inspiring.

“No.”

Amber smoke narrows on me, lashes long. “Never seen you before. I’d remember.”

Viola saves me by drawling, “Sage is our local painter. Very talented, too.”

I can’t help but smile because Vi has never seen any of my paintings. Not a one. But her support makes my heart dance just the same. I have to get out of here. Something about this man has my skin covered in goosebumps. The way he looks at me, like he sees right through me. Like anything he asked of me, I’d say yes to or answer with complete honesty even if I didn’t want to. “Would you like to pose for me?”

What came over me?

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