Page 104 of When Hearts Surrender

I toss Silas a bone I got from the kitchen and he happily settles in front of the fire and attacks it vigorously.

Grinning, I walk over to the easel and admire the painting there—a somber piece of charcoals and blacks, of what looks to be a blistering sea against murderous skies, and a lonely lighthouse perched atop a cliff, the David against nature’s Goliath. My breath catches as I marvel at the thick paint strokes. I can see the passion in them, the leashed down emotions, much like the artist behind the piece.

The lighthouse looks like it’s fighting a losing battle. It’s forlorn. Hopeless. A tiny beacon of light in a sea of gray. I purse my lips in contemplation.

I don’t think so, Maxwell. Nope, not on my watch.

Excitement tremors inside me, my work temporarily relegated to second place in my list of priorities. Picking up a brush and the oil painting palate on the desk, I get to work, starting with mixing different colors to create the new shades I’m envisioning. Thank goodness I took enough art classes in college to know what I’m doing. After all, fashion is art.

“I knew you’d go crazy if you didn’t work a little. And why are you smiling like that?” his voice rumbles behind me and I shiver, thinking back to yesterday when he had me pinned against the window.

Seconds later, I feel his heated body pressed against my back, his lips trailing soft kisses over my cheek and neck. My blood heats and my core pulses, my body obviously not satiated, ready for another round between the sheets with him, but I have things to do.

More important things than sex. Like convincing him there’s hope in the world.

“Maxwell,” I moan, pushing him away, “I’m trying to be helpful.”

He growls and nips my neck. “Trust me, you’reveryhelpful.”

“Ugh, you are impossible!” I laugh, wiggling out of his grasp.

He gives me a flirtatious wink, and I melt a little bit more inside.

“What are you doing with my paints?” His attention finally catches on the palate I’m holding in my hand.

“Your painting—something is missing, don’t you think?”

A troubled exhale escapes him and he frowns at his art.

“I painted this based on a sketch I did in April at Lake Superior. It always felt off, like it didn’t have a soul. I still can’t figure it out.”

“Do you trust me?”

Maxwell’s gaze flickers to mine, his frown softening. “Of course I do.”

“Let me do something then… I think I know what’smissing.”

He quirks a brow, his lips curved in amusement, and he steps aside.

Grinning, I work on the canvas. Soft, feathered strokes to highlight the clouds and the morning light, shorter, precise strokes for the lighthouse beacon and the birds.

Soon, I find myself immersed in his painting, transporting myself to the shores of Lake Superior on a chilly April morning. I hear soft scribbles in the background, no doubt him making notations on my new sketches, as we work in comfortable silence with the crackle of the fireplace as companion.

“What do you think?” I ask twenty minutes later, stepping back, my fingers rubbing at an itch on my nose.

Holding my breath, I watch him step in front of his easel, his dark eyes piercing, assessing the changes I made. He crosses his arms, his muscles rippling in his gray cable-knit sweater. A muscle twitches in his forehead.

Unease circulates inside me.Does he not like it?

After a few minutes, he turns to me, his face flushed, his throat working as he swallows.

“Belle…this, what you did there…” He seems to be at a loss for words.

“Too much? Did I mess things up? I haven’t been to the exact location you went to, but I have been to Lake Superior before. But it was during summer, in the afternoon, with my girlfriends. So maybe my memory is faulty. Or maybe—”

He pulls me to him and hugs me tightly, pressing my ear to his chest. I hear the thumping of his heart, sprinting, soaring like the birds I painted on the dark skies.

“It’s beautiful. The soul…what was missing. It’s breathtaking.” His voice is rough. “Thank you.You fixed it.”

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