Page 6 of Trash the Dress

He grins and it’s the most handsome one I think I’ve ever seen. “Trust me, I’ve noticed exactly how much of a gorgeous woman you are.”

I feel myself flush with heat at his compliment. I’m proud of my body, and very confident, but to hear a man like Zander Bailey say he’s noticed how gorgeous I am…it does things to me it shouldn’t. Especially considering I just ended a three-year-long relationship in the most humiliating way.

“Then why?—”

He cuts me off.

“You took this hellish situation, this hellish day, and chased the last little bit of sunshine you could find, by a lake named after the sun no less. Now, instead of wallowing in your sadness, you’re showing it who’s boss. Hate to break it to you, but you’re nowlittle sunshineto me.”

“Makes sense,” I tell him while laughing.

He taps the side of his temple. “Perfect sense,” he says, and winks before shutting his door.

CHAPTER THREE

Scarlett

We pull up to a darkened building and I can’t help but state what I’m thinking. “I didn’t figure you for one to leave your little town of Greendale Valley very much for the city.”

“I don’t. But I have friends, in high and low places,” he answers.

“Good to know.” I hop out of the truck, still on bare feet, with my dress still damp from the lake photo shoot.

“I hope I didn’t ruin your truck seat with my wet dress,” I tell him.

He has the pizza we picked up on the way, and one beer and a soda in hand as he makes his way over to the door of this quaint studio in the middle of a bustling area outside of Nashville.The Notebookis on the sign. He punches in a code and the door opens.

“You won’t hurt my truck, little sunshine. It’s seen worse than a wet dress.”

The thought makes me slightly jealous, thinking he means from other women, which is a ridiculous thought to have. I have no claim on this man.

We walk inside and he starts flipping on lights. I glance around the studio, and he wasn’t kidding. It’s a recording studio. “We can’t mess this place up with yellow paint, Zander.”

He points to a small kitchen area, and I go in. He sets the food and his drinks down. “I figured we’d eat first since you’re probably starving, then we can use the paint and finish your trash-the-dress photo shoot. Don’t worry, they’re renovating the studio and there’s an empty room in back they haven’t touched yet. Plus, I have a painter’s drop cloth to cover where you’ll be.” He winks and says, “I got this covered. Start eating and I’ll grab the cupcakes and your wine.”

He walks out and I pull a slice of pepperoni pizza from the box. Within a few minutes he’s back. We eat in near silence, only making small talk before he grabs his painter’s drop cloth and the yellow gallon of paint and a paintbrush. “Bring the cupcakes and wine,” he tells me.

I grab them and follow his footsteps. I notice how well the white button-up shirt he wore today stretches across his broad back and how well his dark jeans hug his hips. He stops abruptly and flips on a light switch.

I bump into him and he turns. “You okay back there?”

“Yep, sorry. Wasn’t looking,” I clip in response.

“You’re fine. Here it is,” he says as he gestures toward the small room in front of us.

It has dark gray walls with no windows, and it’s empty. He sets the paint can down and then lays the cloth on the dark floor. It already has some yellow paint on it. A few other colors too. When he sees me looking at the cloth, he says, “I paint a little in my spare time,” and then shrugs his shoulders.

“I see. If you paint anywhere near as good as the pictures you take, I’m sure it’s amazing.” He takes the wine and cupcakes and sets them away from where the paint will touch them.

Then, he grabs the paintbrush he had and approaches me with his camera already hanging on a strap from his neck. He stops in front of me and holds my stare with his own. “Are you sure you want to take it this far?”

“I am. What do I need to do?”

He opens the paint can and dips the brush in before swirling it just a bit. When he stands back up, he faces me. “Hold out your hands.”

I do as he says, and he paints my palms yellow.

He backs away, brings his camera up, and then readies it. “Now use the paint however you want.” He starts clicking away even though I haven’t moved yet. I finally run my hands down my sides to show how much I want out of a dress that should’ve never been mine. Once the paint is almost gone from my hands, I pick up the brush and hold it in the front, allowing the paint to drip and splatter down from the neckline to the bottom.

---