Painting Kisses

by Melanie Jacobson

  “Lia . . .”

  “Fine. I’ll answer. I like you fine, but dating isn’t my thing. Add to that a relationship with a guy who reminds me a lot of you and which exploded with debilitating injuries a few years ago . . .” I took a bite and shrugged. “I didn’t feel like hopping into your truck and riding into the sunset the second you asked.” I smiled, and he shook his head at me.

  “I want to know more, and yet I’m pretty sure this conversation is going to go badly for me if I remind you of a catastrophic relationship fail.”

  “I didn’t say catastrophic.” I licked my spoon and thought about it. “No, it was catastrophic. But you are beginning to seem less like him. So that’s good. Maybe.”

  “Since I’m a smart man, I’m going to change the subject and put some more distance between that guy and me. Next question: what do you do when you’re not working?”

  “I help take care of my niece, and I’d rather do that than anything when I’m not at the diner. Although painting is turning into a second favorite thing pretty fast.”

  “You’re good at it. That was an amazing watercolor you did. Are you self-taught?”

  “No. I went to art school.”

  “Cool. Where?”

  “Sorry. That was three questions.”

  “No, it was only two.”

  “You asked if I’m self-taught. That was three.”

  His spoon clattered into his bowl. “No way! That was a follow-up. It doesn’t count.”

  “It counts. As in one-two-three, and I don’t have to answer any more questions about myself.” He looked so disgruntled that I giggled before I could help it.

  “There are people from coast to coast who would tell you I’m incredibly persuasive, but I’m pretty sure there’s no way I’m going to convince you to give me a real third question, am I?”

  “Nope.”

  “I give up. Our choices for conversation are either the NFL or politics.”

  “Or your house. I think you promised a tour. You’d better deliver, or I’ll have to call you a dirty welcher.”

  “A dirty welcher?” he repeated. “Do you by any chance spend time watching old movies?”

  “Was that another question? Because I don’t think I have to answer it.”

  He scooped up my bowl and plopped it in the sink. I sort of loved that he didn’t leave it on the counter or feel the need to put it straight into the dishwasher. It was my same level of housekeeping. Although he probably had someone who would come handle it all later. Still . . .

  “Hey, Aidan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I studied art in college. It was way beyond a hobby to me. I kind of lived it, you know?”

  He nodded but said nothing, as if he were afraid that interrupting would make me clam up. It might have. But his silence let me risk even more. “I painted different stuff than what you’ve seen me do, but when my personal life fell apart, I couldn’t paint anymore, for a lot of dramatic, artistically temperamental reasons. So I didn’t. And I’ve been here awhile, and now I’m painting again.”

  He waited, but I didn’t have anything more to say. “I’m fascinated. Want to tell me more about it? I’ll give you another bowl of ice cream. A big one. And fill it to the top.”

  “No. I answered my three questions, real ones, even. I think I’m done.”

  “I can live with that for right now.” He glanced around the kitchen like he was reorienting himself, which made me feel like he must have been paying some pretty intense attention to me. And that planted seeds of warmth in my chest that worried me but not enough to say good night. “All right, I promised a tour, so let’s go,” he said. “We’ll start from the bottom and go up. This is where you make a crack about me trying to trick you into my basement.”

  “I’ll go willingly on the condition that there’s something cool in there.”

  “You’d think it was cool if you were a ten-year-old.” My eyebrows lifted in question, but he only shook his head at me. “You’ll see.”

  Chapter 17

  A door off the kitchen led to some stairs, and when I stepped into the basement, my jaw dropped. It was like walking into a secret room in Disneyland or something. The space was huge and had more doors at the far end leading to who knew what, but I could barely take in what I was already seeing. It was a kid paradise full of overstuffed furniture, beanbags, a massive flat-screen with several game consoles connected to it, a wall lined with shelves full of children’s books at the perfect height for little kids to browse, and a huge play space packed with bins of toys.

  “This is . . . incredible,” I said when I found my voice.

  “Uh-huh. Before you start questioning why a single guy who’s almost thirty has a giant kids’ room in his bachelor pad, you should know I have eleven nieces and nephews, all under twelve years old. And since my entire family lives within two hours of me, I planned for the fact that every single holiday and family event will be here now.”

  “Wow,” I said, and the image of him drowning under a pile of kids made me warm to him even more. This was becoming a war of attrition with him steadily gaining, and yet I couldn’t bring myself to turn around and march myself back to my car even though it was the smart play.

  “There’s more. Prepare to hate me for all my ridiculous excess in about ten seconds.” He crossed to the wall on the other side and opened the double doors in the middle to reveal a three-lane bowling alley.

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. Did I mention all those nieces and nephews come from my four siblings plus their spouses? I like to keep everyone happy. So I also built this,” he said, nodding at a door leading off from another part of the play room. It opened to reveal a home theater large enough to seat at least thirty people.

  “Uh . . .”

  “I know. I’m everything that is bad about consumer America. Lay into me. I can take it.”

  It wasn’t even the conspicuous consumption thing that bothered me most about the wealthy. If Aidan had acted as if this whole set up was in any way normal or had presented it to me as evidence of his awesomeness, I would have faked a headache and gone home. But he fidgeted ever so slightly, like he’d shared an embarrassing secret. That and the need to be unpredictable prompted my next words. “I was thinking you must be a big film buff. We could talk about that instead of politics.” I’d seen enough movies on my own over the last three years.

  “I like movies, but this is super convenient for watching football too. I believe I mentioned the NFL as one of our talk options already.”

  “Not my thing.”

  “Fine. But just so you know, this room is like this because my brother made me do it. Dude seriously can’t be parted from his games during the holidays. Also, it’s entirely possible that I watch a lot of movies and sometimes spend entire Sundays down here doing marathons.”

  “Like what?” I expected him to say Stephen King or maybe something reeking of testosterone, like the Fast and the Furious films, but he mumbled something I didn’t quite catch because it sounded like Lord of the Rings.

  “I’m sorry. Did you say you do Lord of the Rings marathons?”

  He shifted on his feet. “Yes.”

  Ha. He had an inner geek. “I should sell this to the tabloids. ‘Sexy businessman is a closet nerd.’”

  “Sexy?” he repeated with a glint in his eye that I trusted about as much as I would a hungry coyote on a deserted running trail.

  “Just trying to think of a good headline.”

  “So you’re not saying you find me sexy.”

  “I did not say that, no.” It was true. I hadn’t said it even though it was exactly what I thought. I wanted to paint him as a streak of superheated blue, the intensity of a lightning strike, with the same tendency to disappear the second it hit its target—gone with nothing but wreckage in its wake. Singed, bewildered wreckage. I took a step back. The gleam in his eye brightened.

  “Scared?” he asked, his voice quiet but not gentle. Where had the nerdy guy
from half a minute ago disappeared to? Aidan stood so still I almost wanted to lean in to check his breathing; his eyes narrowed as he read me, waiting to see what I gave away.

  “Not even a little scared because I’m not playing this.”

  A fraction of a second passed, and he relaxed, his easy smile back. “Nothing to fear from a guy who watches Lord of the Rings marathons. Come on. There’s a lot more house to see.”

  We walked back toward the stairs, and his tightly coiled energy ebbed to normal as fast as it had flowed in, but there was still a charge in the air.

  Back on the ground floor, he took me through the great room again before pausing at the hallway leading off the other side. “My nerd secrets are out, so I guess it’s safe to show you some of my other secrets. Here’s another one. I respect that you paint because I love art. I started collecting it a few years ago, and I don’t have a big collection, but what I have, I love. I keep some of it in this next room, gallery style, but my favorite pieces are in other places throughout the house, part of my everyday living experience, in a way. So this is where you get to judge my taste.”

  I wished I could say I wouldn’t judge him, but if I saw anything that looked vaguely Thomas Kinkade-y, I was going to have to never speak to him again. The thought perked me up a bit. If his art sucked, then he would be automatically less attractive. “I’ll try not to judge. But fair warning, I’ll be able to psychologically profile you with perfect accuracy once I see what you collect.”

  “Wow. No pressure, huh? What I like is pretty different from what you paint.” He winced. “That sounded incredibly insensitive. I meant that you do some stellar watercolors, way better than what I see in the Park City galleries. But I tend toward collage and oils, and big pieces, that’s all.”

  It would be interesting to see what Aidan’s taste in art looked like when he could show me what he truly liked and not just say that my stuff was nice.

  A squeak escaped me when Aidan flipped a switch and flooded his personal gallery. Suddenly, bright lights on the walls illuminated how much trouble my resistance to Aidan was in.

  Chapter 18

  I wandered into the room and tried to keep my face neutral. The paintings were all abstract: two Peruns, a Phillip Na, and three I didn’t recognize, but it was clear they were from artists with a strong aesthetic point of view. They looked like pieces I’d hang in my own home if I were made of money.

  I looked more closely at the room itself. It was rectangular and smallish, compared to the several I’d already seen, but it was still bigger than any room in my house. Three of the paintings hung on each of the longer walls, and two pedestals in the middle displayed abstract sculptures. There was even a bench for visitors to sit and study the pieces, like in a museum.

  “Do you like them?” he asked. “Like I said, I know it’s pretty different from what you do.”

  From the watercolors he’d seen me do, yes. But not different from my oils.

  “I do like them,” I said, pointing. “That’s a Perun.”

  “Yeah,” he said, his eyebrows rising. “I guess that’s your New York training showing, huh?”

  I ignored the question because the truth was that I’d shown with Shon Perun and would know his work anywhere. I took my time rounding the first sculpture, a swooping piece of steel with seamless contours. It looked cast, not welded, and it fascinated me.

  “How do you figure people out?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like some people will judge others based on what’s on their iPod or bookshelves or refrigerator. How do you do it?”

  He nodded slowly, like he was figuring out the question. “Can’t say I ever cared too much about what was on someone’s fridge.”

  “You should. Yours worked in your favor today.”

  He grinned. “Bookshelves and iPods are fair game, I guess. But I think I use what people show me. I judge on actions. Behavior. I’ve heard it all speaks more loudly than words. Someone should make that into an expression because it sounds kind of genius.”

  It was my turn to smile at him. “That’s the only reason I ever talked to you, you know. Because you made me laugh.”

  “I know. That’s the only reason I talked to you either. I wanted to see if I could do it. After you made that comment about that idiot Zhaday, I had this sudden need to know what else was in there.”

  “Too bad I haven’t cooperated, huh?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ve still figured out a lot, even with you stonewalling me.”

  “Like what?”

  He walked back to the door. “Come on. I’ll show you my two favorite pieces.”

  “Aren’t you going to answer me?”

  “If I laid out for you what I think I see in you, it would send you running for your car. Don’t you think it would be weird to hear this in-depth analysis of yourself from someone you don’t know that well? It would be even scarier than following a vague acquaintance up to his deserted cabin in the woods.”

  “So you’re saying you’re not going to answer?”

  “Am I going to tell you things about yourself that you refuse to tell me about yourself? No.” He mimed holding up a spoon. “Dose of your own medicine. Deal with it.”

  I shook my head in that you’re-a-lost-cause way Chloe did to me so often. “Show me your other stupid paintings.”

  He stopped short in the hallway. “You think my paintings are stupid?”

  “No. You actually have a great eye.”

  “Right answer. I don’t like sharing the next ones with everybody, and you almost lost out.”

  “Why? What’s so special about them?”

  “Not everyone gets them. I don’t like explaining them to people. I just want to enjoy them, so I keep them upstairs where every guest can’t trip over them and ask dumb questions.”

  “Is this the part where you trick me and start using all your lines on me again?”

  “Yes. I’m going to trick you into coming upstairs because I haven’t already had at least ten opportunities to kiss you. Somehow, taking you up to the second floor will give me the chance I’ve been hoping for.” He shook his head and started up.

  I didn’t know what made me say it. The way he’d been careful to respect my boundaries all evening? The fact that he loved art like I wished everyone loved art? His freezer full of ice cream?

  Whatever it was, instead of following him up the stairs, I said his name. Softly, to give myself a chance to change my mind, but he heard me and stopped on the third step.

  “Yes?” he asked, turning his head to look at me.

  I didn’t say anything, but he turned all the way and came back down the steps anyway like he knew which words were trying to come out. He didn’t stop until he was a foot away and staring down at me. “Yes?” he repeated.

  “You should . . .” I trailed off. Kiss me? I couldn’t finish.

  “You’d better say it.” A steady watchfulness carved his face into stillness.

  A jolt shuddered through me. Could he read me so easily?

  “Lia.”

  I wanted to take a step back, but I couldn’t back down from the dare in his tone. “Yes?”

  “Say it.”

  No. Whoever else he might be used to ordering around, he wouldn’t do it to me. I ignored his command and leaned forward instead, rising slightly on my tiptoes to set my hands on his shoulders and brush his lips with mine. “Thanks for the art walk.”

  I eased back down.

  His hand snaked out around my waist and pulled me toward him, an inevitability, I could see now. When he had me lined up perfectly against him, his head dipped, and for a sweet instant, he returned the kiss I’d given him before it slid into something much hotter. I wrapped my arms around his neck. To hold myself up? To keep him there?

  When he lifted his head after an eternity, he stared down at me.

  Please don’t ruin this with some flippant remark, I begged him with my eyes.

  “Thank you.”
>
  They were the perfect words for him to say. I wouldn’t have believed anything else that came out of his mouth.

  “I’m pretty sure I’ll never get you to come back if I push you any further, so how about we continue the tour?” he asked.

  He was right about that too. I dropped my arms, but he captured one of my hands before it returned to my side and laced his fingers through mine, then led me back up the stairs.

  “I swear I’m not taking you to my man lair,” he said over his shoulder. “The second level is still community space but only for family and close friends.”

  The landing opened to a loft overlooking the great room below. The giant bank of windows stretched upward in front of us here too. The furniture was dark and overstuffed and inviting, but I could barely take it in when I caught sight of the two paintings mounted on opposite sides of the room. I recognized them. Remade and In the Beginning, done by an artist who had cared deeply about getting it right, about translating the kind of scenery hidden beyond Aidan’s forever-tall windows into an experience so people who had only ever witnessed skyscrapers and not real mountains could understand, could feel what it meant to look at those peaks.

  They were mine. I had painted them in my other life and sold them to Daddy Warbucks. My signature was there, Leandra Tate, my old-life name scrawled in the corner, my name from before I had turned back into Lia Carswell, the name I’d had my whole life until New York had tried to morph me.

  The heat from Aidan’s kiss was still muddling my mind too much for it to process anything rationally, and I could only stare in shock at my work, snippets of Aidan’s words coming back to me over the pounding of blood in my ears. Don’t like sharing these with everybody. What I have I love. Favorite pieces.

  He’d meant my work.

  It should have felt so good to see them hanging there in a place of honor. I should have turned to him and said, “I did that,” and watched his eyes light up in surprise and maybe delight.

  But it was the idea of the surprise that stopped me cold. He didn’t see me in this work at all. He thought I did high-quality, quiet watercolors. And the reality was that he had no reason to see me in the giant canvases on his walls because I wasn’t sure that was still me. Not knowing scared me. I’d been working out who I was on those canvases. I’d thought I’d found an answer over the last few years in leaving my painting behind me. But his commission had changed that, had pushed me out into wide-open spaces I wasn’t sure yet that I wanted to be in, and I wasn’t sure because, like too many other people in the life I’d left behind, he’d written a check to get what he wanted.