Page 12 of The Mountain Man's Mail Order Muse
I rub my face with both hands and sit on the edge of the stool. My elbows rest on my knees as I stare at the floor. She's not like anyone I’ve met. There’s a quiet bravery about her—something that softens me and scares the hell out of me all at once. She wants to be wanted. She’s not trying to take over my world.She just wants to be part of it—she wants to try something new together. And I shut the door in her face.
Damn it. This is not the start I was hoping for.
I shoot up from the stool and walk fast through the hallway. My feet are loud against the old floorboards, but I don’t care. I find her door closed. I pause. My hand hovers above the wood. I hear nothing from the other side, but I know she’s in there. Probably thinking I’m some cold bastard who can’t be bothered to meet her halfway.
I knock, gently. “Daisy?”
A pause. Then, “Yeah?”
I exhale. “Can I come in?”
Another pause. Then the door cracks open, just enough for me to see her face. She’s not crying, but she’s blinking more than usual. Her expression is careful. Cautious.
I clear my throat. “You were right. About what you said. About trying new things. That’s kind of the whole point of this… situation, isn’t it?”
She stares at me like she’s not sure if I’m serious.
I force a smile, but it feels softer this time. “You were just following therules.”
Her mouth quirks up, but just barely.
“I’ve been in my comfort zone so long, I didn’t even realize how much I needed to be pushed out of it. I haven’t painted a person because… I don’t know, maybe I didn’t have anyone Iwantedto paint.” I glance at her. “And now you’re here. And I do.”
Her lips part. Her eyes soften.
“I’m sorry,” I say, quieter now. “I didn’t mean to shut you down. I just… you push me out of my comfort zone. And I think that scared the hell out of me. But it’s a good thing.”
She opens the door a little wider. Enough for me to step inside.
Her cat watches us from the bed, tail flicking like a slow metronome.
I scratch the back of my neck and meet her eyes. “So… if you’re still interested in being my first real portrait, I’ll get my canvas.”
She smiles and nods. “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have pushed. If you want to paint me you can, but if you don’t, I understand.”
I grab her hand gently but firmly and lead her back down the hallway, back into the little studio room. Her fingers are small and warm in mine, and for a moment I forget what I’m even doing—just focused on the way her hand fits in mine like it was made to be there.
I stop in front of the old stool I use for still life set-ups. “Sit,” I tell her, trying to sound more confident than I feel.
She sits, looking up at me with those wide eyes, waiting. Expectant. Trusting.
It guts me, that trust. I don’t deserve it yet.
I clear my throat and grab my canvas. “Okay, uh… I need to see your knees.”
Her eyebrows lift. “My knees?”
“Yeah,” I say, mixing some paint, trying to act like I’ve done this before. “The shape. How the fabric drapes. You can, uh… just slightly lift your skirt—nightgown—whatever that dress thing is. Just a bit.”
She looks at me like she’s trying not to smirk. “Are you asking me to lift up my dress?”
“Not like that,” I say quickly. “Just—just enough for the reference. I mean, the lines. The form. It’s just anatomy.”
She holds back a smile, then slowly lifts the hem of her dress just above her knees, revealing smooth skin and soft curves that make my throat go dry.
“Like this?” she asks innocently.
I nod, mouth suddenly dry. “Yeah. That’s… yeah.”
