Page 88 of Knot a Good Idea

“We don’t just do it in this city, either,” Donovan adds. “We’re trying to be in as many cities as possible, but it takes time.”

“How many cities are you in now?”

He stops painting, his hand holding the brush mid stroke. “More than thirty. We try to make it accessible to all kids. We’re also planning on adding intermediate and advanced technique classes.”

“I…wow.”

“It’s not enough,” Donovan adds sharply, picking the paint brush back up. “My goal is to make sure every child has access to these things, not just in the state. Nationwide.”

“Yes, but you’re making a huge difference right now,” I say, observing the kids. They’re chatting excitedly with each other while channeling their creativity, and my chest tightens as I watch them. “You’re building a community for them,” I murmur. “Some schools don’t even offer art classes, yet you guys are providing it to every kid that wants it.”

“It’s not enough,” Donovan repeats quietly, his lips pulled into a thin line as he paints. “More could be done.”

I sigh. “More can always be done,” I admit. “I could do more with my life. I couldbemore. Have you ever thought about maybe just taking the win and acknowledging you did something good?”

Pot, meet kettle.

Donovan wipes the brush down with a paper towel and places it next to the yellow tray. “Grab the paint roller.”

“So, you disregarded everything I just said, right?” But I grab the paint roller anyway, rolling my eyes.

Trying to get through to him is like talking to a concrete wall.

Pot, meet kettle for the second time.

Donovan hums in acknowledgement, then his hand reaches out to cover mine. I jolt at the sensation, not expecting the electricity that shoots through me at his touch.

I hold my breath as he guides our hands down, the roller making contact with the canvas.

“Not too much pressure,” he murmurs. “You’ll go over it a few times.”

I press the roller down, the vivid green paint passing over the canvas.

“You’ve got it.” His voice is at my ear, and I swallow. “Just back and forth, like that.”

When he moves his hand away, I keep my eyes glued onto the canvas, forcing my heartbeat to slow.

My body burns, craving more of his touch.

His ocean scent swirls around me, and I suck in a deep breath, willing him to not notice the effect he has on me.

I’m still mad at him. He was still a cold-hearted asshole the last time we talked, and smelling like heaven doesn’t change that.

“Why art?” I ask carefully. “Is there a reason you chose this?”

I can feel his eyes on me, but I refuse to look at him until my body cools down.

He’s silent for a long time, to the point where I’m not sure if he heard me.

Then, he speaks.

“I’ve known Liam for a long time,” he says quietly. “He was a nervous wreck when he was a teenager. In high school, we had art class together, and he loved every second of it. He said it calmed him, so I started channeling my energy into it, too.”

“Do you like to paint like him?” I ask.

“No. I sketch, when I have time. I don’t mind painting, but I prefer a sketchbook. Like Hunter.”

“Hmm.” I finally look back at him to find him staring at me.

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