I trudged across the lot to a parked trailer that looked like an office, but it was empty. I trudged some more, up the bunny slope toward the first ski-lift stop, and cursed myself for coming up with this idea. I didn’t want to look for a guy I didn’t know. I didn’t want to try this painting I knew I was going to blow. I turned back toward my car but got a hold of myself halfway there, when the memory of Bethwell flashed through my head.
I headed back in the direction of the ski lift, and as I got closer, I could hear the loud growl of power tools punctuated by a rat-a-tat-tat and the periodic high whine of a saw doing its work. Three men stood in a cluster over some papers, one of them pointing to the paper and then out in the distance toward the hairpin slope I’d decided to call FroYo because I liked the irony. A run down that thing would be the furthest thing from soft-serve, but it would be as twisty as frozen yogurt coiled in a cup. The terribleness of my naming skills made me wince, and it was then that the pointing guy caught sight of me and waved. Sully, I guessed, as he handed off the plans and made his way down to me.
“You’re the artist?” he asked as we neared each other.
“Guilty,” I said, holding my hand out.
He shook it and considered me. It looked like he’d spent a lot of time squinting in the bright sun at jobsites. “Where do you want to go? The highest stop is the only one off-limits today because they’re doing some work up there that you don’t want to get in the middle of, but other than that, it’s all yours.” His arm swept across the whole valley.
“I have some supplies to haul, so how about if we start somewhere close to the parking lot? Take me anywhere you think has an awesome view. Dramatic is good.”
He scratched his balding head and considered the options. “Does noise matter?”
I shook my head. “Quiet is better, but I can work through noise if I need to.”
“I’ve got a spot. And let me help with your stuff.”
He followed me to my car and shouldered my easel. I schlepped the rest of it behind him for a ten-minute walk, wondering if it would make me look like a super obvious teenager if I tried to casually ask where Aidan was. I’d half expected to find him waiting for me when I drove up.
Sully stopped at the newly constructed lodge and led me to a flat stretch of ground behind it. “We built it here to take advantage of some of the best views around. This dirt patch will be the outdoor patio, but we won’t be pouring concrete for it until the end of summer. A lot of skiers will be paying major cash to get this view next year, but you can have it for free.”
Not free. A cranky and vocal part of my brain grumbled that I’d given up a bit of my soul to do this job, but I thanked him and showed him where to set the easel. He left with a promise to send people by to check on me through the afternoon in case I needed anything, and I sat in my camp chair and stared out at the quilt of evergreens and wildflowers stretching as far as I could see.
I breathed, drawing in the air as deeply as I could, like inhaling it would somehow leave its taste behind on my tongue. I listened past the distant drone of power tools for the heartbeat of the place and set up my watercolors. First I’d paint it as it looked. Then I’d translate it to oil and paint it as it felt. At least, that was the plan.
I had the vista in front of me more or less blocked in on my paper when I heard the scuff of approaching footsteps an hour later. I set my brush down and stretched my arm across my chest when the footsteps came to an abrupt halt and a happy woof sounded.
“Lia?”
I twisted at the sound of Aidan’s voice. There he was, Chief panting at his side, both of them looking exactly as they did every Saturday morning at T&R’s. I stood and moved in front of the painting. The idea of him looking at it made me feel like he’d caught me locked out of my house in my underwear.
“Boss!”
Aidan’s head turned in the direction of the shout, and my eyes narrowed. Boss?
A guy a couple of years younger than us, maybe twenty-five, jogged over, his face looking like it couldn’t decide between laughing or crying. “Sorry to bother you, but you’re the first one I seen with a radio.”
I glanced down. Sure enough, Aidan wore a small walkie-talkie on his belt.
“My wife called. She’s in labor. I gotta go. Is that okay? And could you tell Sully?”
The guy was poised on the balls of his feet like he was about to launch himself toward the parking lot in an Olympic qualifying run.
Aidan clapped him on the back. “Congratulations. That’s great, man. Tell me your name, and I’ll let Sully know.”
“Mike Siegel, carpentry. Thanks, Mist—”
Aidan cut him off with a wave and an even bigger grin. “Go have a kid.”
Mike took off, rocketing down the hill, and Aidan’s soft laugh raised goose bumps on my arms. It was laced with genuine happiness, not the teasing undertone he usually directed at me. He relayed the news to Sully and holstered the radio.
“Can I see what you’ve done so far?” he asked, stepping closer.
I hesitated. Two minutes ago, there would have been no way. But the way he’d spoken to Mike had undone me. Someone with that core of kindness wouldn’t criticize my work, even if he didn’t understand it. Granted, I could be wrong about what he understood and what he didn’t. I’d been assuming Aidan was a day laborer like everyone else from Pine Peaks who stopped in the diner, but if guys were coming to him for permission to do anything, he was clearly the foreman. Hidden depths again.
Before I’d broken through with my art, I’d worked under managers in restaurants in Manhattan who wouldn’t have let a woman in active labor leave her shift early, much less a mere baby daddy going to support his wife. I’d always thought Aidan was flash over substance, like Donovan, a smooth talker who every now and then showed a little more charm than the other “challenge” guys who came into the diner. Maybe I was wrong.
Aidan had shoved his hands in his back pockets and was waiting for my permission to look at my painting. He reminded me of Chief, who was settled back on his haunches, alert and patiently waiting for whatever came next.
I reached out and touched his arm. Saying thank you for being nice to Mike would sound odd, since I had no connection to Mike myself, but I hoped he understood what the touch meant. Aidan’s eyes darkened, and I didn’t know what to read into that. When his gaze fell to my hand, I realized I was still touching him, and I let go and took a small step to the side so he could see the watercolor.
“It won’t look much like the final piece, but it’s a start.”
He didn’t say anything. He only studied the painting and then glanced up at the vista I had drawn it from and back to the canvas. “I think I’ve seen this move in movies,” he said, stepping back six feet to study the painting with his head cocked, then stepping forward again but to the side to look from a different angle.
“That’s pretty good,” I said. “What movie?”
“The Thomas Crown Affair,” he said. “You seen it?”
“I’ve seen it. I have this weird thing for heist movies. Should I be worried you’re going to steal this now?” I joked, but it was a poorly veiled attempt at assessing his response to my work.
“If I was ever going to steal art, I would for sure steal this,” he said. “I don’t know what you plan to do differently than this because it’s pretty amazing. Any other secret talents you want to confess to? Are you also a blues singer by night or a secret prize-winning novelist too?”
“I cap out at painting and coffee refills. What about you? You’re an artist and a builder. Anything else?”
“I’m not an artist,” he said, his tone confused.
“You’re a pickup artist.”
“Ha,” he said, and Chief barked an echoing laugh. Aidan nudged him with his foot, but the dog only panted. “I can cook,” he said.
“So you come to T&R’s because . . . ?”
A slow smile spread across his face, and mine heated at the implication. When he didn�
�t say anything, just kept watching me, a twitchiness seized me, the need to move and be less visible. I couldn’t keep my hands from drifting up to redo my ponytail, using it as an excuse to break eye contact so I could stare at the ground while I pulled my hair back in place.
His look bothered me. Over the last couple of weeks, I’d relaxed with him, falling into an easy routine of jokes and a genuine belief that he enjoyed seeing me when he dropped by the diner. But the expression on his face now, the determination around his eyes that lent them a calculating gleam, the smile that stretched to a predetermined point for maximum effect, all resembled the man who’d first come into the diner three months before, full of charm that hid the empty space beneath it with a thin veneer.
“You think I’m a pickup artist?” he asked, his voice low and controlled.
I tossed my ponytail back and lifted my chin. “Yeah. Emphasis on the artist. You’ve got this down.”
He closed the gap between us. “There’s only one way to find out. If I’m that good, I won’t get slapped for doing this.” He leaned down and slid his hand around the base of my neck, leaning forward slowly. He was giving me time to escape, but the challenge glinting in his eyes kept me rooted to the spot as if I’d grown there. He was expecting me to flinch, and when he realized I wasn’t going to move, the challenge quickly became surprise, then almost anger as his lips touched mine.
The anger didn’t translate to his kiss. It was soft but sure, and rather than pulling away, I leaned into it. I wanted it. It had been way too long since I’d been kissed, and I was in the mood for it, to be reminded of what all the fuss was about and to be reminded by someone who looked as good in jeans as Aidan did.
He did more than remind me. As he increased the pressure and slid his other hand up to cradle my head, I wasn’t sure I’d ever been kissed this well.
It was breathtaking. Literally. When he lifted his head, I had to think through the steps of inhaling and exhaling. He stepped back and hitched his thumbs in his belt loops, waiting for me to say something. His posture suggested a casual cool, but his eyes didn’t fool me. They were bright and studying me closely.
I pressed the back of my wrist against my mouth, the heightened throb of my pulse thrumming against my lips. I dropped my hand when I realized what I was doing and cleared my throat, throwing out words that bought me the distance I needed. Badly. “I knew it. You’re a pickup artist.”
The brightness disappeared behind a shadow. There was the cool detachment. “If that’s what it gets me, then I’ll admit it all day long.”
“I’m more concerned with what it got me,” I said.
“Which is?”
“The satisfaction of being right. You’re a player.”
His thumbs left his belt loops, and his arms crossed his chest, his biceps flexing beneath his black T-shirt sleeves. Calculation? Or genuine lack of awareness about what biceps like that could do to a girl’s intentions to keep a distance? “Glad my kiss made you feel better.”
I gritted my teeth at that. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what I heard.”
I stepped back toward my painting. “I’m keeping you from work. I should let you go.”
“It’s all right. They won’t miss me for a while.”
I picked up my paintbrush as a more direct hint. He didn’t move. I waved it at him. “I need to get back to work because I need to go home and babysit soon. You don’t mind, do you?”
“If you babysit? No. But exactly how many jobs do you have?”
“That one isn’t a job. It’s a privilege.” I waved the paintbrush again. “I need to paint? So . . .” I made a shooing motion as if it could brush him away as easily as it laid color down on my paper. This time it worked.
He jerked his head at Chief, and they started on the path. “Good seeing you,” he said over his shoulder. “Let me know if you need to come back. I’m sure I can pull some strings or something. I don’t think you’re in the way of any of Sully’s crews here.”
I shrugged and turned back to my painting, swirling the brush in water for forever before I risked a look to make sure Aidan was out of sight. He was. I grinned. I couldn’t help it. I kind of wanted to be mad. I kind of was mad. But that had been a stellar kiss. Despite the confusing play of emotions that had flickered over his face, all that had come through in that kiss was heat. Now that was how you broke a dry spell.
Not that I’d planned to do it that way. Or maybe ever. I scowled.
There’s no way I’d be doing it again, but it was good to have it out of the way—that first post-Donovan kiss, even though he and Aidan shared a lot of qualities. The confidence, the charm, the brashness Aidan showed in reaching out and taking a kiss he wanted. But chemistry with Donovan had led to a string of poor decisions, an embezzled bank account, and my broken heart. It would end badly with Aidan too. That was the problem when it was all spark and no substance. That’s how Dani had ended up with Chloe and no baby daddy.
The big difference between Donovan and Aidan was that Donovan had looked down on the whole world from his huge pile of money. But even before and after he’d flamed out of his job, he’d had his parents’ money to fall back on; there was no real need to prove himself financially, because there were no consequences if he failed. He wouldn’t understand someone like Aidan, who had the same confidence from the small corner of a mountain where he was the foreman. Aidan’s calloused palm had brushed my cheek as he’d slipped it into my hair, so I guessed he worked right alongside his crew. I respected that, but I didn’t like his swagger no matter if he was a wage slave or a Wall Street wunderkind.
Still, while I never would have so much as hinted at getting a kiss, Aidan had done me a favor—just not the one he was probably strutting around the jobsite thinking he’d done me. When I’d fled Donovan and the Beckman tentacles, I’d sworn off men forever. They confused me. I had one boyfriend in high school, a moody guy who’d edited the school literary magazine, but I think he mostly hung out with me because I wore a lot of black and he thought that meant I got him. Really, my clothes had been about what would show fewer stains from all my artwork.
In art school, there’d been a few more guys, but we’d had intense conversations about our work and then run out of things to say. Donovan had come out of left field and swept me up. I’d never understood why. Still didn’t get it. Maybe I was another thing to collect. Model—check. Lawyer—check. Med student—check. Artist—check.
It had been way too easy to ignore guys altogether after convincing Dani to move in with me and let me help her. I didn’t want guys coming to our house with Chloe around. And even if I’d ever had the insane desire to date, I didn’t meet any guys at work. I mean, I met guys all day long at work. Just not a lot of single ones. Or even young ones.
That was probably how Aidan had caught my eye so easily. His being hot probably helped too. And funny. And he’d already shown more depth than Donovan. But not enough.
I owed Aidan a thank you though. His next OJ would be my treat without having to make me laugh first. He could assume whatever he wanted when I plopped it down in front of him, but the truth was that his kiss meant I was out of my rut. I wouldn’t be stocking up on push-up bras or vixen lipstick while I cruised dating websites or anything, but I’d make myself more open to possibilities.
Not to Aidan though. He and the Donovans of the world were impossibilities. Let them be someone else’s headache.
Griff was a different story. It had taken him forever to say hello to Dani or me. He still hardly ever talked to Dani, but I didn’t know if that was shyness or the fact that their schedules almost never had them home at the same time. All I knew was that, somehow, very recently, I’d begun looking forward to seeing him on his deck.
I considered the paintbrush in my hand and laid it down on my easel. It was a magic wand I had waved and opened up some hidden part of me. Now everything was escaping. I sat down and drew my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them and
closing myself into a safe knot of Lia-ness. It was exactly what I’d been scared of, this inability to close myself off once I opened up to paint. I stared out at the crest of the nearest peak and the way the sun struck it. My fingers twitched toward my brush again, and I wondered if I had any choice about any of this anymore.
No. Art had never been a choice. I’d lied to myself for more than three years about that. But I had to make sure the wildness it loosed in me didn’t spill out anywhere but on the canvas.
Chapter 9
The third time I got yelled at for Mr. Benny’s coffee, it was Tom, not Mr. Benny. I hurried to refill it and mumbled an apology, but it wasn’t like it was going to rescue the nonexistent tip I got from him even on the days when I gave him perfect counter service.
“Sorry,” I repeated to Tom as I dropped off a ticket for the special, a Spam omelet.
“What’s with you today?” he asked. “Chloe keep you awake?”
“No. It’s nothing. I’m distracted, that’s all.” I’d been up late but not because of Chloe. I’d spent two hours rearranging my garage to create a space to paint. It wasn’t great. It was below our townhouse, so we could access it from the kitchen by a flight of stairs, but it only had three tiny windows to let light in. I’d roll up the door as often as I could during daylight, but it still wasn’t ideal. And I’d had to carve out a comfortable space to entice Chloe to play while I worked. Once I got the canvas prepped and started, it couldn’t leave the garage. I’d have to convince her that she wanted to spend a few hours at a time hanging out there instead of the yard.
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