Page 32 of Not Catching Love

Every week, I watch him interact with people. Every week, he gives me hell about how terrible I am at painting, and every week, I learn a new thing about him. A dangerous, wonderful new thing. Like how fall is his favorite time of year.

How he hates nail polish because he can never get it exactly right.

When he gets excited about something, his gaze sort of lifts, and his whole face lights up.

Insults are definitely his love language.

And whatever issues Xander needs to work through have left him with chronic emotional regulation problems.

“You painted a beetle,” he says, amusement lacing his words as he looks at the paper I’m working on.

“You figured it out this time.”

“Lucky guess.” He grins at me, and it’s rare I get that smile without something darker behind it. It hits right in my gut.

I poke his hand with my paintbrush and smear the grayish color over his pale skin. “Or maybe I’m getting better.”

“If anything, I think you’re getting worse.”

He plucks the paintbrush from my grip and moves closer to the paper. Unfortunately, that also puts him closer to me. His hip is an inch from my thigh, and I’m transfixed by the way his hand moves as he adds more details to the legs.

“Why a beetle?” he asks.

I’m not embarrassed by how cool I think bugs are, but I do know that they give some people an ick. Personally, I don’t get it, but I’m also the type of guy who gets excited learning about pollination, so I’m probably not the best judge of what’s cool.

Telling Xander about my little passion is harder than I thought it would be. He’s let me in a lot recently, and I want to do the same, but I’m suddenly wishing I was into car racing or competitive chess.

Eventhathas to be better than bugs.

“I think they’re interesting,” I say carefully.

He nods. “Is it a specific type of beetle or a general one?”

“It’s a citrus long-horned beetle.”

“Nice. Tell me … are long-horned beetles supposed to have a sheep face?”

It’s so completely not what I’m expecting him to say that a laugh bursts out of me. “Now that you mention it, no.”

He glances over his shoulder at me, a teasing expression all over his features. Then, with a quick flourish, he scrawls “Baa!” across the top.

I’m not thinking when I grab his wrist and steal my paintbrush back, but damn, his skin is soft. The warmth from his wrist wraps deliciously around my palm, and when I glance up, I’ve somehow tugged him closer. That stunning face holds nothing but surprise, and thethudof my heart gets more insistent.

I’m stuck in his gravity, and it takes me way too long to let go.

Xander’s throat clears with a sharp snap before he walks off.

Usually once class wraps up, I’m the first one out the door, but today, I stall. It’s always hard to leave when I crave more time with him, but it’s doubly hard today, and once the residents start talking amongst themselves and getting ready to leave, I jump up and help Xander pack everything away.

He glances over at where I’m stacking things in the cupboard. “Don’t you have people waiting for you to sweep them off their feet?”

“Yep.” I stuff my paint-covered hands into my pockets. “I thought …”

He flicks on the tap in the corner and holds out some soap to me. “Yeah?”

I have to move closer to take the soap, and he doesn’t step away from the sink as I wash up. Instead, a moment later, he moves closer, shoulder to mine as he washes the paint from his hands as well. “I’ve been taking your class … you want to take mine?”

I feel his eyes flick toward me. “You’re trying to share the booty grabs around, aren’t you?”

---