Page 98 of Small Town Firsts
I rolled my eyes. I didn’t know what the nickname meant, and I was almost afraid to ask. His big personality had changed the flavor of the taproom, and I wasn’t sure if it was for the better.
“There’s two more over there in the crate,” I said with defeat in my voice.
He pulled the ever present scrunchie hair tie off his wrist and put his hair up. “Hanging paintings is my favorite thing.”
I didn’t know much about the secretive Kain. Because I was used to people talking about me for the last five years, I didn’t push him for details. Especially after Ronan asked me to give him space.
But in my experience, men never loved hanging paintings.
Kain went over to the crate and lovingly lifted the summer version of the trees. The artist had a strong, bold style. Even the spring painting Ronan held had pops of color out of the dark green instead of leaning into the pastel as most people did for that season.
“Who’s the artist?”
I glanced over at Kain. “Sullivan Kelsey. He’s local.”
“Impressive,” he murmured. He pried open the next few crates and pulled out paintings in a variety of sizes. Some on tin, like the trees, others on canvas or wood. All of them were evocative in one way or another.
“For three months, I won’t charge him a commission on any artwork sold. In return he built those.” I pointed at the display cases with Plexiglass toppers. “Once we have the bottles…” I glanced at Ronan with a raised brow. “We’ll make sure we have the first of each batch to show the history of the taproom.”
“They’re not ready yet,” Ronan said tightly.
“Well, get it ready because we’re running out of time,” I snapped back.
He stomped over to where the paintings would go, then out to where they’d been working for his toolbox. I tried not to notice the bunching muscles along his back. Or the new ink that had been added to his shoulder blade.
More in the Celtic style I was used to, but this time something that echoed Kain’s more tribal artwork. The two of them stood at the wall talking quietly and sure enough, there was a matching swirl of ink on Kain’s shoulder as well.
The pang hit me low and harder than I was prepared for. What must that be like to be linked so closely to someone that you’d be willing to get a permanent reminder of a friendship?
Beckett and the Mannings had become my surrogate family, but the idea of stamping myself with a symbol like that wasn’t one I’d ever been called to do. I glanced down at the small star and moon on my wrist.
A crazy moment I’d commemorated the night before I was supposed to go to college. Now it was a reminder that my future wasn’t so easily assured. Especially when my sister had left instead—taking any option of college and the money she stole with her.
I rubbed the phantom burn from that long ago night against my shorts and shook off the old memories. Lots of things still needed doing for the current iteration of my future. And I’d use all the help available to make sure everything was perfect.
I went back to the crates and found an envelope with Sullivan’s logo on it. Inside were discreet QR codes on small cards to place beside the paintings. It gave people the option to buy if they were interested—no hard selling.
Win-win as far as I was concerned.
I wanted to work with local people as much as possible. Both to give back to Turnbull and also to show that Brothers Three was focused on creating community. On a personal level, I wanted to prove that maybe a Webb could help instead of hurt.
This was my first step that didn’t include my bank account.
I straightened my shoulders and went over to supervise. It was my strongest trait after all.
An hour later, we’d argued over height, where to hang, and whether to use wires or nails.
Two hours later, all the paintings were hung—with wires—because I wanted as few holes in my beautifully refinished barn walls as possible. The wires were more of a pain in the ass, but damn if they didn’t look classy.
I left them to clean up the crate debris as my phone buzzed in my pocket.
Beckett.
Just what I needed after a long day.
TWENTY-FOUR
KIRA
