Page 69 of Beau Pair
Beau
“Nice to meet you,” Tru says, and shakes my hand.
I try not to let how cute they are affect my decision. But it’s impossible not to. Tru has lovely ginger curls on top of their head, beautiful, pink puckered lips, and bi-colored eyes—green and brown.
They’re wearing a large white shirt with one sleeve drooping over one shoulder, while the bottom half is twisted in a bow over their bare belly—smooth, slightly chiseled abs by the way—and high waisted jeans with paint all over them.
Tru is drop-dead gorgeous, and the fashion designer in me wants to make them my muse.
But I definitely need to focus, because for now, Tru is a potential babysitter.
“I love your clothes,” I tell them.
They smile and look down on their clothes.
“You gotta tell me where you got those jeans. They’re gorgeous.”
They smile.
“The jeans are from Target. The paint is from class.” They laugh and Zoe joins in.
“Nice. I never would have thought,” I tell them, and they thank me. “You can take a seat, by the way. I don’t bite.”
Tru lifts a hand and runs it through their hair, and I stare at the beautiful shine of the red hair. Tru won’t work. They’re too cute. Too sexy. They’ve got an irresistible pull. And ifIthink that, do I really want to bring them into the same house with Gordon so he can feel it too? I’m all for threesomes and all, but Gordon is mine and will be for the foreseeable future.
They sit down across the table and Zoe runs into Espresso Blues to get our drinks, giving us a chance to talk.
“Zoe tells me you met at a live painting class,” I say.
Tru laughs.
“Yep. She was our live nude model a few weeks ago.”
My jaw drops because, somehow, she failed to mention that.
“Please tell me you’ve got your painting on you because I need to see proof to believe that,” I tell them.
Zoe is confident in her own skin, but posing nude for an art class? Well, color me surprised.
Tru digs into their pocket and shows me a picture on their phone.
“Yup. That’s my best friend,” I say, and I gaze at the picture. “Nice boobs.”
Tru laughs, and Zoe comes back to the table with our drinks.
“Stop drooling over my boobs, idiot. You’re gay,” she says, and smacks my head.
“I wasn’t,” I complain.
“You said ‘nice boobs.’”
“I said ‘nice moves.’ As in, brush moves,” I say as she sits down next to Tru.
“You’re such a terrible liar,” she says, shaking her head.
I look at the painting on their phone again and this time admire the actual work they’ve done. I can draw—clothes, but not limited to it—but boy, Tru can paint. I get serious art envy looking at my naked friend painted by their hands.
“That’s beautiful,” I tell them. “You’re so talented.”
