Page 16 of Begin Again

“Probably a disaster.” I grin. “But at least we’ll have wine.”

She lets out a laugh, stepping closer to the setup. “Alright, Hot Shot. Let’s paint some happy little trees.”

I hit play, and as Bob Ross’s soothing voice fills the room, we get to work, glasses of wine in hand.

We follow along with Bob Ross as best as we can, but it’s clear pretty early on that one of us is more naturally talented than the other. Spoiler alert: it’s not me.

Selene glances over at my canvas and immediately chokes on her wine, pressing the back of her hand against her mouth to stifle her laughter. “Theo—whatisthat?”

I squint at my painting, tilting my head. “It’s a mountain.”

She looks between my attempt and Bob’s effortlessly blended masterpiece on the screen. “No,thatis a mountain,” she says, pointing at the tutorial. “Yourslooks like… I don’t even know. A melted iceberg?”

I snort, shaking my head. “Okay, art critic, let’s see yours.”

She spins her canvas around, revealing a painting that actually looksgood.Her shading is smooth, her trees have depth—it’s not Bob Ross level, but it’s damn close.

I stare at it, impressed. “Alright, okay. I see how it is. You’re just trying to make me look bad.”

Selene grins. “You’re doing that all on your own, Hot Shot. How did you even get paint in your hair?” She reaches over and tries to pick it out, but it’s been in there long enough that it’s already dried.

Fuck. This is embarrassing.

I groan dramatically, setting my brush down. “I think I’ve accepted my fate as the worst painter in Shadow Grove.”

She hums, tapping her chin. “Nah, I think there’s some kid out there making macaroni art who might give you a run for your money.”

Selene’s still smiling as she turns back to her painting, but I catch the subtle shift in her expression—like she’s letting her guard down without even realizing it. Like she’s allowing herself to just be here, with me.

Her hair falls over her shoulder as she leans in, and without thinking, I reach out and gently tuck it behind her ear.

She stills.

So do I.

The air shifts, the playful teasing melting into a heavier tension that hums between us like a live wire.

Slowly, she turns her head, her gaze flicking from my eyes to my lips and back again.

“Are we…” She exhales softly, searching my expression. “Are you going to finish your painting?”

I shake my head, my voice quieter now. “Not at all.”

Her lips part just slightly, and I don’t know if she’s about to say something else, but I don’t wait to find out.

I lean in, giving her plenty of time to pull away if she wants to.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she meets me halfway, her hands finding my shirt, her fingers curling into the fabric. I gently grab the nape of her neck to bring her flush against my chest.

The kiss is slow, deliberate—like we’re both realizing at the same time just how inevitable this was.

She tastes like wine and a sweeter note that’s entirely her, and I don’t think I could ever get enough.

When we finally break apart, she exhales a breathy laugh, her forehead resting lightly against mine.

“So,” she murmurs, her fingers still curled in my shirt. “Does this mean I’ve inspired the artist in you?”

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