Page 9 of Brush Strokes

"Aye, she is."

“I might have been a little overenthusiastic." My teeth clamp together in a grimace. I'm not sure if I should be embarrassed or not.

A grin spreads across his face.My gods, but he's beautiful. Those moss green eyes and auburn hair. I bet he freckles gloriously in the sun. "I guarantee she loved every moment of it. I'm really surprised she didn't out herself as my mum."

"She’s obviously very proud of you. I’m surprised I didn’t catch on."

Eyes twinkling, he gestures back to the small art print, matted and framed in the tiniest office ever to exist. I'm such a loser. But he doesn't seem to mind.

"So why this one?"

I look back to the print, a simple black-and-white photograph of a field of wildflowers, focused on a single dandelion. A gust of wind is carrying some of the small seedlings off into the wind.

"A few reasons, I suppose. The detail that you captured on something so small and delicate is beautiful.And I've always liked dandelions. They're so resilient and hopeful, sendingthose little seeds into the wind and hoping for the best. More than anything, though, I like that you chose such an unassuming subject, something I feel most people would have just trudged over on their way to something bigger and flashier. It really makes it feel unique and personal. I just… love it."

There's an odd look on his face, and he must be regretting staying behind to listen to my incessant droning. "And I’m blabbing now," I say with a laugh, starting to back out of the small space.

"Thank you," he says, looking me in the eye.

"No. I'm the one that should thank you. This little print gives me a little bit of happiness and hope every single time I look at it."

"Hmmm. Every single time, huh? I think… yeah, I feel like you might owe me."

An obnoxious laugh spills out of my mouth. "What!?"

He reaches forward and brushes a loose tendril of hair back from my forehead. "Will you have dinner with me? Maybe tomorrow night?"

My heart skips a beat. "Me?"

"Is there someone else in here that I'm not aware of?"

"No," I laugh. "I just… Why me?"

I'm not trying to sound flippant; I'm legitimately confused. The man standing not a foot from me, towering over my 5'9" frame, is a freaking god. He's stacked, perfectly cut frommarble, like a piece of art. His face is perfection, from his twinkling green eyes to his perfectly manicured short beard. I'm blushing over how much of his body I've already seen, and I can't fathom why he'd be interested in me, of all people. Bitch Barbie, maybe, if she weren't such an asshole. But her friend Becky is gorgeous, and doesn't tend to open her mouth for much more than laughing at her idol's jokes.

"What do you mean,why you?" he mocks jokingly. "You're kidding, right? You're smart and kind and observant. We've been talking for hours and it barely feels like any time has passed. I've really enjoyed spending time with you. And it doesn't hurt that you're a smoke show."

A snort escapes me.That was attractive.“You don’t have to do that.”

His eyes narrow.

"What? Cal, you are amazing—and amazingly out of my league. You're so accomplished, and you look like…. Well, like that," I say, gesturing to his overall appearance. He quirks an eyebrow, and I am forced to explain further. "Men that look like you," I say, still gesturing wildly, "do not go for women that look like me."

Cal grabs my hand to stop my wild movements. He holds his arm out, looking up and down my body like some kind of art critic, or a predator looking for a juicy bite to eat.

"A woman like you is exactly what a man like me goes for. There's nothing I see about you that doesn't appeal to me." He pulls me into his body, and I have to crane my neck back to look up at him. The way he stares down at me is almost menacing, his voice low and gravelly. "If we're being completely honest, I've been thinking about those curves since the moment youbusted into Ezra's class. I couldn't take my eyes off you, and when you bent down to pick up your charcoal and looked up at me, I nearly embarrassed myself in front of everyone there. The only thing I've been able to think about since we walked in tonight and saw you leaning over the desk is what you would feel like in my hands," his voice lowers to a barely audible rumble, "what you would taste like."

I've completely lost the ability to blink, breathe, or think. Part of me wonders if I'm just easy pickings, but then I think that a man like him probably doesn't have to try very hard. He could probably walk into any building, point to whoever he wants, and they'd follow. I'd follow, and he wouldn’t need to put in near this much effort to convince me.

"You're thinking too much," he says, adding a short, unintelligible word to the end. I don't have time to ask him what he said, though. He stoops down and presses his lips to mine. Surprised, I gasp, giving his lips more access, and melt into the kiss. His tongue licks lightly into my mouth, coaxing mine, and when they touch it feels like electricity shoots through my entire body. He groans and mumbles against my lips. "I think I'll just have to show you."

Uh, what?

I'll be the first to admit that I don't get a lot of action. I'm a thirty-two-year-old single woman. I'm not a virgin, by any means. But I can't say that I've had a ton of fulfilling sexual experiences.

This is… different.

I am more aroused than I have ever been in my entire life. His kiss is all-encompassing. My skin is buzzing, skin flushed, lost in a heady haze of lust.

---