Page 51 of Knot Their Girl
The smile I give him then is genuine. “Ah, you want to make fun of me today? Sure, we can do that.” Before he can type in something that would probably be reassuring, I hook my arm through his and lead him out of my room and away from the scent that had called to him.
Phew. Disaster averted.
Up the stairwell we go until we reach the third floor of the house, the area he calls home. We go to his studio, where he’s set up an extra canvas beside his, along with an extra stool and a small table to hold the paint and water cups.
I unhook my arm from his and go towards the canvas on the right. “So, what are we going to paint today?”
He types,Whatever you want.
“Challenge accepted.” I sit on the stool and grab a paintbrush, but Colter comes over and plucks that paintbrush right out of my hands with a shake of his head. He switches it with a pencil. I assume that means I’m supposed to lightly sketch out whatever it is I want to paint before I actually get to the painting part. “Well, you’re the teacher here, so whatever you say goes.” When I flash him a grin, I find he’s quietly staring at me with an expression I can’t read. His gaze does dip lower to my mouth for a split second, though.
Does he know what nearly happened last night between me and his uncle? Maybe I should tell him now, get it over with.
I set the hand with the pencil down on my lap. “Um, there’s something you should maybe know. Something almost happened between me and Gideon last night. I don’t know how or why, and I swear I’m not normally like this. I really do hate alphas, but—”
Colter lightly touches my arm, stopping me from further rambling. His comforting touch disappears when he goes to type something out. He shows me:It’s okay. You don’t have to explain. You’re an omega, and he’s an alpha, like Pax.
“Yeah, but you’re—”
Not important.
My heart hurts when I read that. It’s not the first time he’s put himself down, and I bet it won’t be the last. Colter really does think nothing of himself. “Stop it,” I tell him, my tone a bit harsher than I intend. “You are important. You’re important to me, and you know you’re important to your uncle, too.”
With a sigh, he types out,You don’t have to lie.
“I’m not lying.” I can tell he’s not going to switch his views on the subject, at least not right now, so I turn away from him and give him an out by focusing on the empty canvas before me. “Now, I know you said I can paint whatever I want, but I think there should be rules—you know, to be a little fair. So you won’t feel too bad when I wipe the floor with you.” I pause, trying to think of something. “How about we paint something in this room? Should we have a competition? Yeah, let’s do it.”
I might not have the skills of an artist, was never too great at completing anything when I was forced to take art classes in school, but how hard can it really be? I just need to sketch out whatever I’m going to paint, and then paint it. Easy-peasy. No problem here.
Colter sits on his stool beside me—after moving his canvas so that he faces me in his position and I can’t glance over and see what he’s working on. He seems to get right to work afterhe sets his tablet down, his brows pinching together in the most adorable way.
Such concentration. Never knew it could be so cute on a guy.
The studio doesn’t have much to choose from. There’s nothing hanging on the walls. Nothing but high ceilings and the windows on the far side of the room. I decide to do what I see in front of me: the windows on the far wall, and the floor and ceiling that meet said wall. It’s a lot of lines, but surely it’ll be easy enough for me.
With my pencil in hand, I get to work… and I quickly find out how wrong I was.
I was dumb for thinking this would be easy enough. Turns out, drawing out anything remotely close to a straight line is a lot more difficult than you’d think; each line I attempt is squiggly and basically the opposite of straight.
Man, I really have not a single ounce of creativity in my body, huh? I like going shopping, but pairing clothes together is the extent of my ability. Anything involving a pencil is apparently going to end in disaster.
God, Colter is going to laugh when he sees the finished product.
I don’t let my lack of skills stop me from trying, though. I do my best, and Colter looks as though he does the same, concentrating so hard on his own canvas that he’s totally in his element.
I try not to watch him for too long, just glance at him here and there, but the more I look over at him, the more I see his confidence when he’s deep in his work. Strong strokes with the pencil, not hesitant at all like me when I’m sketching something out. Every so often those amber eyes of his glance over at me, and I just give him a goofy smile—because what else am I supposed to do?
He really is cute. Though he hides in hoodies, he’s got that boy next door thing going for him. With his brown hair just a bit too long, I can easily imagine running my fingers through it and tugging when—
Crap. No, no, no. Don’t finish that thought.
I don’t know how long we’re at it, but it definitely feels like hours pass. I’m so focused on my own canvas that I don’t even care how long it takes, how long we’re there for. I don’t get thirsty or hungry; I don’t even have to break to use the bathroom. I’m knee-deep in my wall-slash-window-slash-ceiling design.
If I was bad with the pencil, I’m ten times worse with the paintbrush. I don’t know how anybody can paint straight lines. If you squint real hard and tilt your head a bit, most of the lines look straight. Kind of.
Hey, I never said I was an artist. I warned Colter that my skills rival a third-grader’s, so if he laughs at me… well, I won’t be too mad since I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh before, which I guess makes sense since he doesn’t speak.
And just like that, I’ve never wanted to hear any other sound more than I want to hear Colter’s laugh right now.
