by Piper Rayne
I snag her chin to kiss her, and I slide my tongue into her hot mouth, spurring her to turn around and wrap her arms around my neck. I don’t want to draw the kiss to a close, but I’m also starving after missing lunch. That’s mostly because I couldn’t eat because of how nervous I am over what I’m about to do.
“I have some really good news,” she says as she stirs whatever she’s cooking. Savannah knows her way around a kitchen. I’ve been eating her cooking since before Mr. and Mrs. Bailey passed away.
I slide up on the counter, grabbing a cracker and cheese she has set out. “What’s that?”
“My house is ready. I went over there today, and everything is finished.”
“Really?” That sucks. “That’s awesome.”
She turns off the burner and sets a timer on the microwave, then she comes to stand between my legs. Her hands run up my thighs. “I know. I’m not sure I’ll like sleeping by myself anymore, but it does allow us to have more freedom from Denver.”
I place my hands on either side of her face and stare into her eyes. “How about Denver moves into your house and you move in here?”
She laughs.
I wasn’t joking.
“Funny you say that. When Austin came to the office, he suggested Phoenix and Denver move into my place.”
“He is your older brother, and you should always listen to your elders.”
“Can you imagine if I always listened to Grandma Dori? She’s the eldest of the elders.” She shakes her head. “It’s only been a few weeks for us. Moving in together permanently seems to be rushing it.”
I jump down from the counter and grab her hand. “How much longer before dinner?”
She checks the microwave. “Twenty minutes.”
“Good. Come with me.”
“Where? What about the oven?”
I tug on her arm. “It’s fine. We’ll only be in the barn. Set the timer on your phone.”
“Barn?” Her eyes light up as if I told her N’Sync is outside waiting to do a private concert for her.
“Yeah, but hey, if you don’t want to know…”
“Oh no.” She takes off her apron and tosses it on the counter, heading toward the back door. “Let’s go.”
I open the door for her and laugh. The sound locks in my throat. The more I try to swallow, the drier my mouth gets from the anxiety hijacking my body. She’s shared so much with me. I owe her this.
We walk along the brick path, and I think that this must be what a person feels like when they’re going to go bungee jumping or skydiving. With every step I take, an impending doom bears down on my shoulders. Once she sees this, she’ll never be able to unsee it. What will she think of me? That I suck? That all of it should be kept in the barn and never see the light of day? My biggest fear is that she’ll think I’m weak. I’ll no longer be Liam Kelly, the tattoo artist, the one who finishes the Bailey twin’s fights. This will change her view of me. As my hand rests on the doorknob, I take one last deep breath.
“Hey.” She stops me before I turn the knob. Her warm hand lands on my chest and she rises up on her tiptoes. “If you’re not comfortable with this, you don’t have to do it. You don’t have to show me. It’s okay.”
“Why do you say that?”
Her hand covers my heart. “Because your heart is beating like a stampede of elephants is running through your chest.”
I chuckle, taking her hand. “I’m usually an open book, but what’s behind this door, I haven’t shared with anyone… ever. But you’re a part of my life and I want to share it with you.”
“Okay.” She nods.
I turn the metal doorknob, pushing the door open. We step into darkness, but I flick the light on. The barn isn’t really a barn. I’ve refurbished it to suit my needs.
“Liam!” She gasps in awe.
She steps into my private space where all my easels are set up and paintings are hanging, some stacked up in the corners. The tables dotting the space are full of paint and brushes. The floors are covered in cloths to protect them, and there’s a full fridge in the corner and a couch and chair for the late nights when I find myself blocked.
She turns away from a painting of Lake Starlight at dusk. “You painted all these?”
I nod, stuffing my hands into my pockets and feeling my cheeks heat.
She walks to another pair of easels. One has a painting of Calista at Brooklyn and Wyatt’s wedding. The other has a painting of the gazebo in the town’s center, all decorated for Austin and Holly’s wedding. She says nothing as she takes them in.
I crack my neck, watching her gaze move up the walls. The pictures I’ve hung up are mostly ones of Lake Starlight. One when Terra and Mare opened. Wyatt’s hotel from the backside with the lake in front of it.
“Say something,” I urge.
She glances at me, then her hands run over the completed canvases stacked in the corner. “They’re all so beautiful. So realistic.”
I rock back on my heels.
“Why are you hiding all these?” She goes through my stack of paintings leaning in the corner and I fight the urge to stop her. Some of my first paintings are in that stack, including some that will probably sadden her.
“Because they’re just for me.”
She nods, but she stops perusing. I slowly walk over and see that she’s looking at one of her parents’ caskets side by side. Before bringing her in here, I thought about getting rid of those, but I couldn’t.
“I did that from memory.”
She studies it for a second. I’m sure she sees the nine Bailey siblings, all years younger than they are now, sitting in the first row of the church.
“It’s everything I remember from that day,” she says in a quiet voice.
“Remember Phoenix and Sedona wouldn’t leave you alone?” I brush the backside of my hand along her arm.
She nods, then rummages through the pile again.
“I should warn you—”
But her gasp says she’s there. The picture of my mother and her mother laughing on the couch. She’s not ready to see all the ones I’ve done of us as kids at cookouts and fishing trips.
“You do look just like her.”
She turns around and the pictures land back in place. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you do this?”
I shrug. “It helps me process, I guess.”
“Process what?” She steps toward me, and I wonder whether she’s going to slap me for bringing her in here.
“Their death. My parents leaving. Life.”
She turns away from me, glancing at the one of Calista in her flower girl dress. She’s looking at the front of the aisle, at Rome, while placing flowers on the ground. They’re smiling at one another.
Savannah sits on the stool and just stares. A tear slowly falls off her cheek. She brings her knees to her chest as another tear races down her face.
“I didn’t bring you in here to make you sad.” I come alongside her, and she leans into my chest.
“I know. They’re all so beautiful and life-like. It hurts that my parents never got to meet Calista or Dion or Holly or Wyatt or Harley.” She turns and looks at me. “What do you think they would think of us?”
I swivel the stool around and bend down to her level. “I like to think they’d be happy. Probably surprised like the rest of your family, but happy for us.”
A small smile graces her face. “Thank you for sharing this with me. Here I thought you just had cars or some giant beetle collection in here.”
I laugh, gripping her hands and helping her stand. I wipe away the tears that have stained her cheeks. “Beetle collection as in cars?”
She shakes her head. “No, I thought, like, insects or something.”
“Why would you think that?”
She shrugs. “I have no idea. But I never would’ve imagined this.” Her gaze circles around and rests once again on the stack in the back. “Are all of those from before?”
“Yeah, there’re some of just my parents, my childhood home, my bike.”
“So they’re not all so emotional?”
I chuckle and pull her into me. “No. It’s just whatever captures me, and I want to recreate.”
“Liam?” she says into my shirt.
“Yeah?”
When she draws back, her blue hues meet mine. “Why don’t you share these? People would buy these, they’re that good. I’m sure Rome would love the one of him and Calista. Your mom would love that one of our moms laughing with coffee mugs in their hands. You should be proud of your talent.”
I shake my head. “I’m not ready for that step. I’m not sure I ever will be. I’m sharing this with you because you need to know that when I’m in here, I’m not watching porn or, like you thought, playing with my beetles.”
She laughs and her forehead hits my chest. “Okay.” I hold her even tighter. “Thank you for sharing.”
I bend down and kiss her lips. “Thank you for not freaking out too badly.”
“Am I allowed in here?” she asks, biting her lip as though her mind is working overtime.
“Yes. Whenever you want, but I have to warn you, there are some pictures that might be painful to see.”
She nods. “Thanks for the disclaimer.” The buzzer on her phone goes off. “Time to eat.” We’re on the brick path outside when she looks over her shoulder. “Maybe you could paint me like in Titanic?”
“I’m not sure I have Jack’s self-control.” I pick her up by her waist and swivel her around so that her legs are wrapped around me. “Want to paint with me tonight?”
Her face pales. “I’m not like that, Liam. I’m not creative.”
“You don’t have to be. The fifth step is for you to paint whatever you want. Just sit there for an hour or longer. Believe me, it’s calming. You could paint a rainbow or a flower or a tree. It doesn’t have to be people.” Her face twists in an I’m not sure about that motion, so I change topics for the time being. “Let’s just eat first.”
There will be plenty of time for me to convince her of a lot of things.
Thirty-Four
Savannah
After dinner, Liam convinces me to paint with him. Now he has me dressed in an oversized button-down shirt that was his once upon a time.
“I better be the first girl to do this with you.” I point at the paint splatters on the shirt.
He bends down and kisses my lips. “I promise.”
“Then care to explain how a nice shirt like this got ruined?”
“I came in here and painted without changing my clothes. Had the picture in my mind and didn’t want to lose it so…”
I look down at the blue dress shirt, but I can’t remember him wearing it. “What was the picture in your head?”
He chuckles. “You trying to catch me in a lie?”
“Just curious.” I shrug.
He’s setting up my easel with a fresh white canvas, paints, and brushes at the side. This is insane. My picture will look like a five-year-old’s. I’m not saying a five-year-old’s picture is bad. They’re just five. I’m thirty-one. Big difference.
“If you have to know, it was after Brooklyn and Wyatt’s reception.”
I narrow my eyes. “When you yelled at me?”
He shakes his head. “When you yelled at me, you mean.”
He kisses my forehead. I know it’s just to appease me, but the man knows how to use his lips to distract me.
I focus on the white canvas as my gut twists and turns. The last thing I want to be doing is this.
“Okay, you’re all set. Any specific music you wanna listen to?” He heads over to his stereo, which I missed my first time in here.
I can’t stop checking out every painting he’s done. He’s so talented. I don’t understand why he doesn’t have a gallery on Main Street. The landscape paintings would fly off the shelves because they capture our small town perfectly.
“Then I’ll decide.” His thumb presses and slides around his phone. Through the speakers, Lewis Capaldi plays.
“Are you trying to pull sadness out of me? And put your shirt on. It’s distracting.”
He chuckles, sitting down at his own easel. “We could skip the canvas and paint each other and roll around the floor.”
“I think I’d do just about anything not to have to paint right now. This is so unfair. What if I put you in front of a computer with an Excel spreadsheet and a P & L statement?”
He laughs and leans to the side of his easel to look at me again. “You forget, I’m a business owner.”
I growl and fling a brush at him.
“I’m sure there’s something you can make me try that I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing.”
His words sound good, but he’s so easygoing that I know he wouldn’t care whether he sucked. I’m not used to sucking at anything because I shy away from anything outside of my comfort zone.
“Just relax and let it come to you.”
I sulk on the chair for a bit, hearing his paintbrush swooshing across the canvas.
The song changes. In the pause between songs, he must hear me sighing because he comes over to me, picks up my hand, and puts a paintbrush in it. “Let’s start with your favorite color.”
“I don’t have one.”
He sighs. “I already know you do.”
I think back to the journal he gave me as he dips my brush into the red. Guiding my hand onto the canvas, he puts a swirly line across it.
“What is that?”
“What’s it to you?”
“A swirly line.”
“Use your imagination.” He leaves me and goes back to his easel.
I stare at the line. “I don’t think I’m an imagination kind of person. You use pictures. Can’t I use pictures?”
“Maybe I should make you do a paint-by-numbers,” he says, not getting up from his stool.
“That would be perfect.”
He leans over again, shooting me that look that teeters between annoyance and humor.
“Fine.” I blow out a breath. “But I’m not showing you after.”
“Okay. You don’t have to.”
Ugh. Mr. All The Right Answers. I swear.
With my paintbrush on the canvas, I continue the swirly line in a circle to make a flower. Dipping another paintbrush in yellow, I do the center of the flower, then green for leaves and stem.
Once I figured out what I’m going to paint, I do enjoy the process. I continue with another flower, then more green and yellow. The music switches to a more upbeat track, which makes me bounce in my seat as I flick little dots of blue on the canvas for water droplets.
Liam checks me out a few times, but I put my two fingers to my eyes and back at him. “Keep your eyes on your own work, Kelly.”
He laughs and his foot taps on the floor to the beat of the music.
A half hour later, I spin around on my stool. That did feel awesome. I got lost in the process of painting and the time flew by. “Done!”
“It’s not a race, babe.” He’s still dipping and stroking, dipping and stroking.
I watch his forearm muscles shift and flex. I’ve grown used to seeing him without a shirt, but I’m positive I’ll always get hot and tingly from looking at him.
“Stop staring,” he says without even glancing my way.
“Are you almost done?”
“Almost.” He dips his paintbrush again.
I tilt my head back, looking at the ceiling. Jumping off the stool, I head back to the pictures stacked in the corner. The squeak of Liam’s stool says he’s watching me.
I can’t say finding that picture of my mom wasn’t like a gut punch by Floyd Mayweather. I’ve seen pictures of my parents. I pass one every morning when I enter the Bailey Timber Corporation building. My dad’s picture is beside my grandfather’s in the executive hallway, but I never stop and truly look. I glance, never fixating on it. That’s how I’ve survived these years.
Flipping through the painti
ngs, I smile at some, skip over others—like the one from the funeral—and stop cold at the last one in the stack. It’s my parents’ wedding.
I shift all the other ones to pull it out. “They were such a beautiful couple.”
“Like Ken and Barbie,” Liam says from behind me.
I stare at the picture of my parents on their wedding day. We capture this scene every year in the Founder’s Day parade.
“The picture is kind of iconic. That’s why I had to do it.”
I stare at my parents. My mom’s in a sleek white dress, and my dad’s wearing a suit instead of a tuxedo. “I do look like her.”
“Mostly, but you have some of your dad in you too. It’s the blonde hair that makes people only see your mom. But you have your dad’s nose, and see how his upper lip almost disappears when he smiles? You have that too.”
“How would you know? I never smile,” I deadpan.
“You smile a lot more than you think.”
I place the picture down. “I’ve always kept their memory tucked into a box, you know? It’s too painful to fully remember them.”
“I know.” He kisses my forehead.
“Show me your painting?” I ask.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“You’re just going to make fun of me.”
He tugs me forward. “Never.”
We walk over to my easel and stare at the painting for a minute.
“I swear it was a bundle of flowers a moment ago. Did you switch it out as a joke?”
He laughs. “It’s good, babe.”
He ignores my question, which says he didn’t. I just suck at painting. “No, it’s not. It looks more like rotten apples.”
“It’s your first. Give yourself a break.” I pick it up to throw it away, but he takes it from my hands. “Nope.”
Instead of fighting him—because he’ll win anyway—I run over to his picture. Again, I’m in awe. “I’m beautiful.”
He laughs, not shy about sharing his work with me. He painted me in his button-down shirt with no pants on. “You are.”
I cover my mouth when I register what I said. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant you make me beautiful.”
He bends down and kisses my neck. “You’ve always been beautiful, but I like to think it’s me who brings that glow to your cheeks.”