Page 62 of Fresh Canvas
“I know it’s late, but would you like some coffee? I’m afraid I’m fresh out of earl gray tea, your highness.” She stepped inside, mischief evident in the quirk of her grin.
“I guess I’ll just have to survive like a peasant then.” I heaved a dramatic sigh.
Amantha kicked off her sodden sneakers into a drippy pile as I turned to survey the tiny studio apartment. For some reason, it felt like Amantha. Classic. Unfussed. It helped that it smelled like her too.
Or didn’t help.
Could rainwater shrink collared shirts?
I slipped a finger into my collar and tugged.
A small kitchenette was nestled into a corner beside a smalltable and two chairs. The only other notable furniture in the open space was a large bed with a fluffy white comforter and way too many throw pillows. What was it with women and so many throw pillows?
Amantha took out two mugs, loaded a coffee pod, and pushed a button on her Keurig machine. She headed toward a door beside the bed, but hesitated. Her conflicted expression flitted over my damp clothes.
“I’m going to change into something dry. I’m sorry, but I don’t think I have anything that would fit you. Well, I mean, there’s this.” Her pink fingernails slowly pulled down the zipper of my navy jacket. Pausing halfway, she slipped it off a slender shoulder and inspected the interior.
I laser focused on the wall just above her, ignoring the periphery of her rain-soaked shirt. Heat crept up my neck.
Amantha continued, unaware as always. “This jacket is pretty wet, but thereisa dryer downstairs?—”
“I’ll be fine,” I cut in smoothly. “I’m almost dry now anyway.” I looked down at my shockingly translucent shirt.
Welp. That’s that.
An aggressive heat reddened my cheeks.
Amantha offered a shy smile. “Okay, I’ll be right back. Um, make yourself at home, I guess.” The locking door offered her some privacy as I wandered the apartment.
“How am I supposed to make myself at home?” I called. “You have no couch. What kind of adult doesn’t own a couch?”
Her laugh was muffled. “I never realized that. I mean, this place is temporary while Anthony is in Europe. I usually relax on my bed.” A pause. “And Idoown a couch, you jerk. It just doesn’t happen to be here.”
I chuckled and shook my head. The apartment was almost devoid of decoration. Only a few china plates hung next to a brilliant portrait of a hummingbird. I stepped closer, examining the beautiful art.
Good taste. But these plates?
I gently brushed my finger along a flourished porcelain rim.Beautiful, but they felt out of place, too gaudy for Amantha to have chosen them. They must have held some sentimental purpose though, because Amantha didn’t seem like a commercial, trinket-type person.
As if to prove my point, the only other personal item was a picture frame beside Amantha’s bed. I grinned at Amantha’s arms wrapped around a young boy. Her face wore the most joyful smile I had ever seen on her. The resemblance between them was striking, though her son’s mischievous eyes were blue, not gray.
Cute kid. Beautiful mother.
I sighed. I was in trouble.
Said “trouble” walked out of the closet a few moments later. I clenched my jaw to prevent it from dropping. Did she evernotlook attractive? Amantha wore a purple Minnesota Vikings jersey, sweatpants, and fuzzy white socks pulled over the cuffs. Her face had been washed clean, now free of the wandering mascara.
Adorable, yet sexy. No amount of fabric could conceal the hints of her curves. Her wavy hair had dried soft and fluffy. I suddenly itched to rake my fingers through it.
This was worse than Rick’s closet. Much, much worse.
Amantha saw the picture still frozen in my hand. “Cute, right?” Her luminous eyes shone the way they always did when she talked about Anthony.
Amantha sidled right up next to me, and I tried desperately to ignore her proximity—and the meadow scent that followed.
“We took that on his ninth birthday. He convinced me to go paintballing with his friends. The little turd wouldn’t stop chasing me.” Her eyes turned sad.
“You miss him,” I said.
