Page 9 of A Small Town Spring

“Do you mind?”I step fully into the space and put my hand back in my pocket lest I reach out and touch something I’m not supposed to.

“Um, yeah, sure.It’s fine,” Toby says.He’s not reluctant, exactly, but he doesn’t sound all that certain about letting me in.“Ivy mentioned you and Pete were coming over.I lost track of time.I tend to do that when I’m working.”

“Not a problem,” I say, wondering where to start.“That’s the Greystone.”I point at one of the works on the easels.

“Yes, finishing it up in the next couple of days hopefully,” he says.His chuckle sounds forced.“Guess it’s good that you can tell what it’s supposed to be.”

How could I not recognize the iconic Rosedale building, especially the way Toby’s painted it?It’s not quite photo-realistic, but there’s something more real than real about it.It’s as if he’s breathed actual life into the static picture via paint texture and brushstrokes.It’s an accurate representation of the building, down to its wide gray stone front steps, and it feels like you could almost step right into the painting and onto those steps, to live in the gorgeous world he created out of pigment.

“Toby.”His name comes to my lips before I can stop it.It feels oddly good to form the word, so I say it again, “Toby.This is staggeringly good.”

“Oh.”He rubs his hand on the back of his neck and shrugs.“Thanks.”On someone else, the modesty would be an affectation, but on him, it’s genuine, making him even more sweetly adorable.God, I am in so much trouble here.But again, my mouth opens and words pour out before I can stop myself.

“You have to come paint my cottage,” I say quickly.“I’ll pay twice your normal fee.I must have a Toby Wheaton on my walls.”

He blinks at me.“Just like that?You don’t even know what I charge.”

“Whatever it is, it’s not enough.Say you’ll do it.”I know how to get what I want.Most of the time.I can’t have him—I know I can’t.He’s Ivy’s.

But I could have a piece of him.

Suddenly, he grins, and it changes his entire demeanor from insecure artist to playful pretty boy.“Is this you badgering me, Kingston?”

The sound of him saying my name brings instant goosebumps to my arms.Or maybe my jacket just isn’t warm enough for the day.The studio is cold, too.I see a space heater in a corner, but it’s not on.I can’t help the shudder that undulates down my spine.

“It’s chilly out here,” he says, perhaps noting my shiver.“We can go in.”

“Wait—show me more?”I ask quickly.

Instantly, he retreats back to insecure artist.“Oh, this place is such a mess and I?—”

“This one.”I point to the canvas nearest me, a landscape of an icy blue beach, crashing waves, and dramatic cliffs.“Tell me about this one.”

“That’s the Isle of Wight.Ivy and I went there a couple of years ago.Quite near the town of Kingston, actually.”He smiles at me full-on, and I swear I feel a little dizzy.

I clear my throat.“Do you always paint from life?”

“Generally, yes.I take photos and use them for reference.”He files through a nearby stack of six or so canvases, pulls out a large square one.“Here’s something that came out of my head, though.”

It’s another landscape, but of no place I’ve ever seen, a winding stream and a tiny fairy cottage hidden away in a jungle of flowers.“Beautiful,” I murmur, the word so far from adequate I’m almost embarrassed to use it.“You could illustrate fantasy in a heartbeat.”

He cocks his head, sets the painting down.“Jack said the same thing the other day.”

“If you wanted to get into it, I could give you some names.”

His forehead creases.“You just met me and you want me to do a painting for you and introduce me to your contacts?”

“Decisive is one of my better qualities.”

His warm laugh makes me forget the chill of the room.“I’ll think about it.”

“No pressure.Except about the painting of my house.That I definitely want.What do you do first?Take pictures?”

He laughs again, louder.It echoes off the hard walls.“Let’s go have lunch and we’ll talk.”

I let him off the hook, for now, and he shuts the door to the studio firmly behind us.On the way back to the house, he asks where I live.

“Bramble Street.About half a mile past Pete’s house.”

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