Sometimes I listened to music while I worked. But today, with the door between the spaces open, I let the sounds of being backstage inspire me. Snippets of music. Laughter from the cast. Chris and Nate barking instructions and encouragement.
Every once in a while I’d hear the back door open and footsteps shuffle across the tile into the conference room, but I couldn’t see anything from my corner hiding spot. I’d finished re-creating half of the sketches when a sharp pain reminded me it’d been a few hours since I’d moved.
I stood and stretched until the tendon in my neck popped back into place. My left foot had fallen asleep, and when I took a step, I lost my balance and my hip connected with the rolls of paper, sending them crashing to the floor.
“Awesome.”
Just as I bent over to grab one, I heard a deep male voice say, “Let me help you with that.”
“Thanks.” I moved the closest roll back up and froze when I saw who had helped me: Walker, the sexy blue-eyed Viking I’d been dreaming about all damn week.
He stared at me.
Ha! More like he glared at me.
He bit off, “You,” as if too angry to say anything else.
My mouth opened to explain when Nate sailed into the room. “Trinity, I need some—” He stopped and his gaze winged between us. “Oh, good. I see you two have met.”
“Not exactly,” the bearded wonder muttered low enough for only me to hear.
Outside the room, someone hollered, “Nate, Chris needs you.”
“It never fails.” Nate grabbed a roll of masking tape off the table and breezed out the door.
“So who are you pretending to be today? Amelia Earhart? Because you’re not Amelia Carlson.”
I took a step backward. “What are you doing here? Are you stalking me or something?”
“I’d have to know your name to stalk you, sweetheart, and we both know you lied to me about that. So I’ll ask again. Who are you?” He tipped his head toward the door. “Unless you want me to go out there and ask Nate, in front of everybody, who you really are?”
“Just chill for a sec. It’s not what you think.”
“Babe, I’m so chill I’m fucking frosty. Who. Are. You?”
“Stop crowding me.”
“Have it your way.” He spun around.
“Walker. Wait.” I set my hand on his upper arm to stop him. The feel of his bulky biceps caused a strange tickle in my belly. This guy was solid muscle. He could break me in two if he wanted. And he seemed mad enough to do it.
Do you blame him?
He got right in my face. “I’m surprised you remembered my name. For the last time. Who. Are. You?”
“Trinity Carlson.”
He muttered about a weird T name and then demanded, “Why lie about it?”
“I didn’t lie.”
“Bull. Shit. Did you or did you not tell me your name was Amelia?”
I’d had enough of him looming over me. “No, I did not specifically tell you my name was Amelia. You overheard someone call me by that name and assumed it was mine.”
That literally knocked him back a step.
See? Not the only one at fault here, big guy.
Then he rallied with, “But you didn’t correct that assumption either.”
“No, but I didn’t lie to you, Walker.”
I saw the moment when it clicked. “You lied to those other guys? Why?”
“There were two of them, one of me. I was in a strange bar without my wingwoman or my cell phone—so yeah, do the math.” I paused. “Look, the name thing wasn’t a blatant lie, but more like a . . . half-truth. And I felt bad about doing it.”
“Half-truth?” He made a sound of disbelief. “You do realize that’s the same as a lie?”
He sort of had me there. “Let’s not delve into an ‘Is the glass half full or partially empty?’ argument,” I said breezily. “My full name is Trinity Amelia Carlson. Professionally I go by Trinity Amelia.”
“But everyone calls you Amelia?”
I shook my head. “Just my family.” My stepmonster started calling me that because Trinity sounded too hippie-ish. Heaven knew a man of my father’s stature didn’t want the general public to be reminded of his out-of-wedlock dalliance. “I go by Trinity. And I never told you to call me Amelia. In fact, I think you said my name once.”
“Fine. Trinity. Maybe your name was a half-truth, but don’t deny the number you gave me was completely fake—and that, sweetheart, was a total dick move.”
My mouth dropped open. “What? It was not fake! Which means it was not a dick move! That was my old cell phone number.”
“Old, like from years past? Because even if you change cell phone providers, you can keep your ‘old’ number.”
“Unless the reason you change it is because of harassment,” I retorted. “Last month I got twenty-four thousand unknown calls. Twenty-four thousand. Do you have any idea what it’s like for your phone to ring every two minutes? Day and night? My provider threw out an excuse about autobot issues and refused to do anything. I’d just switched providers and got a new phone number the day we met. So when you asked for my number, the one I gave you was a reflex, okay? I had that number for four years and the new one for four hours.” I inhaled a deep breath. “Besides, you didn’t give me your number. And you did leave the bar in one helluva hurry. Maybe I took that to mean you only wanted to contact me on your terms. So I’m mostly at fault here, but not completely, and you know it.”
He stared at me for several long moments—as if his oversight hadn’t occurred to him.
“Yeah, well . . .” He jammed his hand through his thick blond hair. “Whatever.” He turned and walked off.
“Where are you going?”
“To beat the shit out of something.”
When he was out of earshot, I said to the empty room, “I seem to inspire that reaction in a lot of people.”
I returned to my safe little corner and for the rest of the morning I did what I did best: lost myself in a two-dimensional world where things were simpler and mistakes were easily fixed—by either erasing or starting over on a blank canvas.
Somehow I doubted I’d get a clean slate with Walker Lund. And that made me more than a little sad.
—
After lunch, which I ate alone in my car, I started on the first set, a forest scene. It wasn’t a happy bright blue sky, but an ominous gray. The pine trees were dark, angry slashes of green. I began to add layers, smaller trees, bushes and a rock-strewn path. These layers were softer, with feathery-looking pine needles, and a faint hint of light glowed beneath the lowest boughs.
I stepped back to gauge the image as a whole. It needed more distinct branches in the trees in the middle. Add a few dabs of yellow-green to balance the gray shadows and then this one was done. I snatched my bottle of water off the table and drained it.
“I hate to admit it, but you are one amazingly talented artist.”
Startled by the deep voice, I dropped the bottle on the floor and whirled around. “God. Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
Walker had his hands in the pockets of his well-worn jeans. “Sneak up on you? I’ve been right here watching you for the last half hour.” He paused. “You didn’t know I was here?”
I shook my head. “People have said bombs could go off around me when I’m working and I wouldn’t notice.”
“I don’t know if I’ve ever experienced that level of concentration—to say nothing of harnessing it repeatedly on cue to create something like that.”
Usually I let compliments—and criticisms—roll off me. Yet his praise struck a chord since it wasn’t about the finished product, but his appreciation of the process. “Thank you.” Feeling self-conscious, I grabbed a smaller round brush and returned to painting.
I twisted the brush as I moved down the image. After the third pass, when I still felt him watching me, I said, “I’m sorry.”
“For?” he said behind me, closer than he’d been a few minutes
ago.
“For not correcting your assumption my name was Amelia.”
During his silence, I fought the urge to fill the conversational void.
Finally he sighed. “I’ve spent the last four days pissed off, directing my anger outward because I knew exactly where the blame belonged.”
On you.
“Evidently my ego couldn’t handle the fact I might’ve screwed up, so it conveniently blocked that part out.”
I snickered.
“What’s funny?”
“That typical male response. You admit you have an ego but act like it’s a separate appendage you have no control over. Kind of like when guys claim the little head is always at war with the big head for who’s in control.”
He laughed.
God. He had such an awesome laugh.
“Can you stop painting happy little trees for a moment and look at me?”
I whirled around. “Did you seriously just make a Bob Ross reference?”
“Why? Do you hate him or something?”
“No! I love him. In fact, he’s a large part of why I became an artist. He was so positive and encouraging, which was so not the norm in my childhood. And it’s not the norm in the art world either. He took such joy in creating. I loved how he made it look so effortless, even when I kind of resented him for that too, because it’s not easy. Some of the happiest times in my childhood were spent in front of an easel, just me and Bob Ross on the TV in the background, painting happy little trees.”
Walker was studying me.
“What? Do I have paint on my face or something?”
He shook his head. I swear his mouth twitched as if he was trying not to laugh.
Then I realized I’d gone off on a tangent again. Annoyed with myself, I said, “Stop staring at me.”
“But I really like your face. And I thought I wouldn’t see it again, sweetheart, so I’m gonna look my fill.”
I had no idea how to respond to that.
“Can I ask you something?” He paused in speaking but kept inching forward. “Did you consider getting in touch with me?”
“I considered it.”
“And?”
“And I concluded chances were slim you’d lay a big wet kiss on me if you saw me again after you discovered you had the wrong name and number for me from me, so I let it go.”
“You didn’t think about me at all?”
I hedged, pointing the paintbrush at him to stop his advancement. “I have to finish this. So if you want to continue talking, you’ll be talking to my back.”
As soon as I turned around, I heard, “Then you can’t complain if I’m staring at your ass.”
Shivers danced down my spine from the sexy, growly way he’d said that.
I switched brushes and colors.
“You were wrong to assume that I wouldn’t want contact with you,” he continued. “My brother offered to track you down with the little information I had. But I told him I just wanted to forget the whole thing.” He laughed softly. “Of course, you’re here—the last place I expected to run into you.”
Using the wooden end of the paintbrush, I dragged lines through the paint, adding another facet to the branches. “So what now?”
“You tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“That Tuesday night was a fluke.”
His denial surprised me. Or was he baiting me? “I should admit I’d had too many drinks and that was the only reason I kissed you?”
“Was it?”
“No. But I think you know that.”
He exhaled loudly. “I do. I mean I did and then I didn’t, and now I’m really freakin’ glad I didn’t imagine this.”
My hand stopped midair. “But you said you wanted to forget the whole thing.”
“That was then.” Walker had moved in close enough that his breath drifted across the nape of my neck. “This is now. As far as I’m concerned, we haven’t even started.”
“You are confusing me.”
“Welcome to the club, sweetheart.”
“Do I get to choose a welcome gift for becoming a new member of this club?”
He laughed. “You have a bizarre sense of humor.”
“So I’ve heard. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I like it.”
“Really? Most people don’t get it. Most people don’t get me.”
“Their loss. Because I get you.”
I almost demanded he prove it because I didn’t want to get my hopes up about this guy.
The soft bristles of his beard grazed my cheek. “Trinity.”
Gooseflesh rippled down my arm from his mouth being so close to my skin. “What?”
“Can you look at me?”
I turned around. This man was just so . . . manly. Big athletic body, toned muscles, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the hair on his chest was as thick as his beard.
Warm, rough-skinned fingers rested beneath my chin when he angled my head up to peer into my face. And those eyes of his. Sigh. Cerulean blue on the outer ring, a smoky gray by his pupil. Beautifully expressive and laser focused with intensity on me right now.
“There are millions of people in the Twin Cities. There are hundreds of bars, theaters and volunteer organizations. The chances of us randomly running into each other twice in one week are miniscule. But we did.” His thumb brushed over the divot in my chin. “I’m considering it a sign.”
Chills danced down my spine. I was glad he’d said it first. Part of me wanted to point out this connection could be a bad sign just as easily as a good one, but the hope—and, yes, forgiveness—on his face had the rebuttal drying on my tongue.
“Let’s start over.”
“You want to pretend that kiss never happened?”
“No. I want to pretend you gave me your real phone number and real name so I can spend time with the real you.”
“That was the real me in the bar, Walker.”
He smiled. “Good. Because I liked you.”
“Past tense?”
“So literal for an artist,” he murmured. “The past is past. But I want the future tense to belong to me.”
Okay. His confidence? Completely sexy.
“Come out with me tonight. You owe me that much since you did agree to a date.”
His insistence didn’t surprise me. But I’d had an exhausting week. All I wanted was to slip between my sheets, try to shut down for a solid eight hours. “Thank you for the offer. But I’ll be worthless company tonight.”
“I doubt that.” He touched my cheek. “Just dinner, then. You have to eat.”
“Do I look like I miss many meals?”
Walker’s eyes turned stormy. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Say shit like that about yourself. I like what I see when I
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