Page 103 of Reluctantly You

“I will,” Shiloh says and after a quick goodbye, hangs up.

I set my phone down and scrub my hand over my face, Mitchell eyeing me curiously.

“Is he okay?”

“Sleeping. He tends to do this when things get overwhelming. Not that I blame him.”

“I should have killed that fuck,” Mitchell murmurs, but I stop him.

“Perhaps, one day. I’ll contract out.” He grins at that. “But for now, we wait. And while we do, I know something that will occupy our time.”

His cheeks flush and I step toward him, brushing my knuckles across his cheeks.

“Not sex. Something else. Something…different.”

His gaze darkens, and I bite back a smile.

Yes, this is exactly what he needs. This confirms it. I can’t fucking wait.

Mitchell started out at the paint and sip class wary and jittery, but after gulping down an entire glass of red wine and staring at the canvas, he started to paint.

At first, it was tentative strokes and then he became more bold. Splashes of color, swirls of paint. My canvas looked like a child painted it, all awkward lines and mismatched colors, but Mitchell’s…

Fuck.

It’s good, abstract, full of life. A completely different take on the desert landscape the teacher was guiding us toward. There are swirls of purple, pink, and orange with the lone green and red Joshua tree in the distance, the silver moon almost too big for the sky.

If this is what he could do without practice, he’d be a force with classes. With a mentor. With someone who could appreciate his innate talent.

His eyes are glazed over as soon as the teacher wraps up, his hand shaking slightly as he turns to face me. Blue paint streaks across his cheek, his fingertips silver and green.

“I—” His words trail off and he swallows. “I wasn’t good company. I?—”

“Mitchell,” I reply with a small smile as I move toward him, people crowding around and staring at his masterpiece. “Look what you did.Look.”

He turns his watery gaze toward the canvas and shivers.

“I didn’t…I didn’t know I could do this.”

“Mm, but you did. You did know.”

He sets his paintbrush down and runs a hand down his face, the paint streaking across his cheeks, making even more of a mess. But he’s never looked so fucking perfect.

“I need some fucking air.”

He pushes past the people whispering, their eyes alight with wonder as they look at what he’s created, and steps outside.

“That’s amazing,” someone says.

“Beautiful.”

“Mine looks like shit compared to this.”

“Is he a professional artist?”

My heart swells and I shake my head. “No, he’s not. Just naturally talented and doesn’t realize it.”

I turn and stare at Mitchell standing outside as I swallow the rest of my wine before grabbing both of the canvases, handling his with far more care than my own, and striding outside into the warm summer air. Mitchell is lingering near the curb, staring blankly out into the horizon.

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