Page 12 of Hidden Memories

I brush it off and get back to our negotiation. “I’m pretty sure my college project trumps Hector’s sweet grass. Thetree is mine on weekends. I think that’s more than fair custody. You get five, I get two?”

I walk around Santi and sit at the base of the trunk, placing my bag down and my sketch pad on bent knees like an easel. I’m not sure what else to say but I can’t have his eyes on me anymore. Or mine on him. My cheeks are burning, and I forgot to put on deodorant this morning before heading out, so I know I don’t smell as fuckable as he does.

I stare into the distance for a while, picking out the colors I should start with, figuring he’ll probably leave soon.

“Mind if I see how you do that?”

Did he just ask to watch me draw?

“I promise my process isn’t that interesting. Surely you have better options?”

I’m prying a little. Doesn’t he have anyone else to be with?

He crouches next to me, smelling of soap and spicy cologne. Santi produces a dazzling smile that I’m sure tastes like sweet mint.

He lifts his beer. “Care to join me?”

I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. “I’m only eighteen.”

“I thought as much.”

My jaw goes slack. “Oh, you guessed my age, did you? How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Right. You're telling me you’re a handsome, twenty-one-year-old man and you have nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon than watch me paint that hill over there?”

He wets his lips, and sinks his teeth into the bottom one. “Handsome?”

I roll my eyes but I love the way he’s trying to get morefrom me. His attention is like basking in the sun. “You know you are.”

“But now I knowyouknow it, too.”

Flirting is not a good idea, but it’s so effortless with him. He’s an expert; knowing exactly how to gaze at a woman so she lets her guard down. I should remember the warnings my dad gave me. If this feels too good, it probably is.

He points to my sketch pad. “Will I make you nervous if I watch?”

“Not at all.”Just nervous to have you that close.

“Well then…” He sits flush to my side so he can lean against the trunk, too. “Just pretend I’m not here.”

But that would be impossible. The warmth of his arm radiates against mine, and the magnetism is powerful. There is no reason I should feel this way. Yes, the man is hot as sin, yes, he does have good taste in trees… but also…

I lift my chin to steal a glance. He’s staring at my hand on the parchment.

Nobody has ever taken an interest in my art before. This man is a flirt, I’m flattered to be on the receiving end. But him furrowing his brow as he watches each stroke of my color pastel… that sets off a feeling I’ve never experienced.

I’ve always been an artist. I always was the child bringing home doodles and more. Every one ended up in the trash by the next day. Dad thought refrigerator magnets were tacky, and there were no places in our perfectly designed house to displaysilly littledrawings.

Emotions tug at my heartstrings. Wow, this is sad. Some stranger with nothing better to do is bringing me to my knees just taking some interest in my art.

I’m not doing a very good job on my sketch, distracted by his warm breath on my ear. The gentle rolling movement of his arm on mine every time he breathes. He sure has noconcept of personal space, but then I guess he needs to peer over my shoulder to see how I do this.

I take up a tawny pastel and make long strokes. “So, Santi, have you always liked art?”

“Never knew I had an interest. Well, tattoos are art, I guess.”

“They most definitely are.”

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