by Lauren Runow
“Ma, she’s not a matchmaker.”
“No. She’s even better. She’s a romantic.” Her brows rise as she grins at me for confirmation.
I lift my shoulders as I pass him with a smile.
“For the record, I don’t need help with meeting women,” he calls as he follows us to the back, acting like a child trying to prove a point.
Bobbi points to the vases she needs moved. “Oh, I’m sure you don’t have trouble with getting laid. I’d just like someone to call a daughter-in-law.”
My mouth falls at her brazen conversation of sex. I know he’s a grown man, but my mother and I would never have such a talk. She said it all fun and casual, as conversations between adults should be.
We’re halfway through bringing the flowers up to the front when the driver arrives. Loading everything into the cooler truck is harder than I thought it would be. Jake and Bobbi are constantly making sure every petal is perfect and that the vases are secure in their transport boxes.
While we load, Bobbi tells me all about the type of woman she thinks Jake needs to date. A strong-willed woman who will put up with his antics. A career gal with a big social life of her own, who won’t eat up too much of his time because Jake is a social butterfly and the man likes his freedom. Someone from a big family is a bonus because she’ll understand how to handle the Moreau clan. And the woman most definitely needs to know how to cook.
As she rattles off her version of the perfect woman, Jake ignores her, tending to the delivery.
The truck drives away, and we head back inside. Bobbi goes to the back, and Jake and I are left in the front of the shop.
“Your mom is great,” I say with a grin.
“She’s a spitfire; that’s for sure.” His tone oozes sarcasm.
“She’s also very beautiful. You look just like her. The eyes are captivating.”
He smiles. “My eyes are quite nice.”
I hit him in the arm. “I meant, your mom’s. Man, you’re vain.”
He rubs his arm as he laughs. “No, you specifically gave away that you check me out. What other things do you notice about me?”
I start to walk away, but he grabs my arm.
“I’m only teasing.” He twirls me back to face him, and I glance at his handsome face. “Besides, I notice things about you too. Like how pretty you look in this dress.”
I bite my lip and turn away. “Thanks.”
He places his knuckle to my chin and brings my gaze back to him. “Don’t get bashful like that. You’re a gorgeous girl when you stop hiding behind those big sweats. Your hair looks nice too.”
“Are you implying I need makeup and nice clothes to be pretty?”
He doesn’t smile, nor does he flinch. “I’m saying, you should show off your beauty more often. It’s striking.”
I inhale a deep breath and take in the magnitude of his compliment. I’m often complimented on my wit and prowess but never my looks. I’ve always found pride in the fact that my mind is my best feature. But if I’m being honest, hearing these words from this man makes my stomach flutter.
“Now, forgive me if I’m wrong, but I think you came here for a reason.”
His words have me staring up at him, confused.
“And what do you think that is?”
“I don’t know, but I might have just the cure for whatever is bugging that little head of yours.” He takes his apron off and places it behind the counter. “You remember my friend I told you about who owns that art studio? There’s a class tonight, and I can get us in.”
My thoughts go blank for a moment before revving back up and processing what he said. “You want us to paint each other?”
“Yeah. It would be great research for your book, and if you like it, you can write about it.”
With a deep exhale, I take a step back. “I don’t know. That seems so intimate.”
“I don’t mind.” He sounds so casual. “It could be fun, and I promise to be a gentleman. It’s a public class, so it’s not like we’ll be naked or anything.”
I sway my head from side to side as I take in his proposal. I’ve never, ever done something like this. Hanging out with a risk-taker like Jake could be good for my writer’s soul. Plus, I’m desperate for more of the writing mojo he gave me last night.
I toss my hands up in the air and declare, “Sure, let’s do it. Experiencing it will totally help me write it more clearly. Okay, I’m in.”
Jake’s face lights up as he checks his watch. “The class is at eight, so if you hang out a bit while I lock up, we can drive there together.”
He heads to the front and locks the door before starting his closing procedure. I take my time in walking around, checking out each flower and breathing in the beauty that nature provides.
When I turn around to ask Jake about a certain flower, I catch him staring at me. He doesn’t try to hide it either. The way his eyes are intensely on mine makes me redden, and I quickly turn away, not sure how to handle the feeling it causes inside me.
Chapter Seven
The art studio is located on the second floor of a warehouse on the industrial side of town. It’s a loft with giant black-paned windows, which are covered with a sheer material to keep the sunlight in but the onlookers out. Metal beams run along the ceiling, and the floor is concrete with varying shades of gray.
“Jake Moreau!” A guy with a long beard, wearing jeans with paint smeared all over, walks up to us, and the two slap hands. “I was surprised when you said you could make it.”
“It was a spontaneous decision. That, and I had to find the right partner.” Jake lays a hand on the small of my back. “Rex, meet Lacey.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” I say, shaking his paint-coated hand. “Not much privacy though, huh?”
Rex lets out a barking laugh. “Don’t worry. This is as conservative or risqué as you’d like to make it. We request no nudity though. Keep all the bits covered up.”
I’m relieved at his words and also kind of intrigued. Having someone paint me totally naked sounds amazingly sexy.
“I bet you make a killing here around Valentine’s Day,” I say.
Rex thumbs over at Jake. “I keep telling this guy we need to work together. Flowers and painting obviously go hand in hand.”
“Nah. My father is old school. He likes to keep the shop running the way my grandparents did and their parents before them.” Jake puts the attention back on me, moving his hands to my shoulders and giving them a rub. Maybe I’m super stressed, but it feels really, really good. “Now, where this fits even better is in Lacey’s books. I’m hoping she might get some inspiration. I’m just here for the ride to help this one.”
“I’m certain this place will inspire you. Follow me. We’ll get you guys set up.”
Rex leads us through the room of about ten couples, each spread out throughout the loft. We stop at a table in the corner with a tarp on the ground in front of it and two plastic folding chairs facing each other.
“So, who’s getting painted on, and who’s doing the painting?”
Jake sticks his hands in his pockets and rocks on his heels.
I back away from the tarp and say, “I need to be able to focus for the research.”
“Yeah, but don’t you also need to know what it feels like to be painted? Like, from the girl’s point of view?” Jake suggests.
Rex laughs, ushering us to take our seats. “Choice is yours, but a lot of our couples like to paint each other. You can paint the whole body or just a portion. The rules are … there are no rules.”
A devilish grin crosses Jake’s full lips. “I like the sound of that. You game, Lace?”
Am I game enough to let this man paint my skin? “Fine, but I get to paint you first.”
Rex leaves and comes right back with a tray containing paint bottles, brushes, and a palette for the paint.
“Deal,” Jake says, and I feel like I’m making a much bigger deal than just who gets to paint whom first.
�
�Here is everything you need. You can use brushes or your hands. Totally optional. And you have all the paint you’ll need,” Rex points to the items on the tray. “We ask that you pour the paint out in small doses, so it doesn’t get wasted. Tonight’s lesson will be flowers, just for you.” He hits Jake’s arm.
“Because I don’t see enough of them every day?” Jake laughs.
“No, because I figured you know them enough that you won’t have to think of what they look like. Envisioning what you want to draw can be the hardest part for some people.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Jake says, taking off his jacket.
Rex smiles at me before he goes to greet the next couple who just arrived.
I place my purse down on the far side of the folding table and take in all the tools and colors I have to paint with. Couples around us are talking to one another, some laughing and others in intimate whispers. Between the space and the scene laid out before me, my mind is rushing with words and ideas for a chapter, and I haven’t even touched anything yet.
That is, of course, before I turn around.
And see Jake.
Shirtless.
It’s no lie. I’ve always found him attractive, and his face is just the tip of the hot-man iceberg. A well-defined, chiseled chest with a smattering of hair leads down to six-pack abs, which I’ve written about many times yet never touched in the flesh. His arms are strong with each muscle outlined to perfection.
Tall, big, handsome, athletic, broad, powerful … I need to up my adjectives when I describe a man.
There is definitely a reason I remembered that seafoam-green towel.
Our eyes meet, and it’s obvious he knows the sight of him just caught me off guard for all the wrong reasons, so I grab a bottle and pour paint onto my plate.
Rex begins the class by instructing us to coat our partners with a base color. When deciding on which color to choose, I take my time to really look at Jake. I see the way his eyes are brown, but they have a dark circle that lines them entirely. His jaw is straight, and his right eyebrow has a scar that runs through the length of it. He’s definitely not Tom Hardy, yet he’d be a damn good hero to explain in every detail.
I reach for the green paint for the base color. I dip the paintbrush, coating it on both sides to get the most coverage before sliding my stool closer to him.
“I’m letting you paint me first, but I have one rule.” He points his finger at me. “Nothing on my sides.”
Smashing my lips together, I try to hold back my laughter. “Are you ticklish?”
His brow quirks and I can tell he doesn’t want to admit it. He points at me instead. “No sides. Deal?”
Lifting my brush, I hold it up for him to see. “Okay, ticklish man, you got a deal. I won’t paint your very delicate skin.”
“Trust me, there is nothing delicate about me.”
He raises his chin slightly as he sits taller and opens his arms just a little bit, giving me full access to his chest.
As I make the first stroke on his body, I feel his breath hitch before he takes a deeper inhale. I move the brush down his pecs and back up, surrounding the area with a magnificent, rich green that complements his skin tone perfectly.
Once the base is finished, Rex instructs us to choose what flower we have in mind, and I instantly think of the peony he gave me earlier. As I swirl red and white together to get the pink I’m looking for, I keep glancing over at Jake, who never takes his eyes off of mine.
“Your mom seems pretty adamant about marrying you off.” I try to use conversation as a distraction.
“She certainly has her mind set as to what I need.” It’s easy to sense the morose tone in his voice.
“So, a strong-willed woman isn’t your type?” I lift the paintbrush and make a small stroke right over his pectoral.
His chest rises with the touch. I’m leaning forward, making the petals, using the folding table to keep my balance. It’s a little awkward.
“I don’t want a shrinking violet,” he says, taking my hand that’s wrapped around the edge of the table and placing it on his thigh. It’s hard beneath my palm. I blink as my hand flexes over the chiseled muscle and look up at him. “But I don’t mind a woman who is willing to learn from me. With me.”
The warmth he radiates sends chills to places I should not be feeling right now. I have to close my eyes for a brief second, so I can gather my wits.
I scoot closer while trying to steady my breathing. “That doesn’t sound so bad. What other attributes would you want in a woman?”
My hand brushes against his skin again, and the smoothness that encases his toned abs makes me want to lick my lips. I take a deep inhale and glance up at him. When I notice he’s staring at me, my heart pounds even more.
I had no idea this would be so intense.
“I like the give and take of a relationship. Someone who complements me but also challenges me. I value a woman who is well put together.” His eyes skim over my perfectly lined eyes. “Sophisticated, bright, socially curious.” His brows rise, and I laugh lightly. “Fair-minded, an excellent conversationalist, and above all else”—he pauses, and I still my brush, waiting for his words—“honest. That…is what I want.”
Here I am, in a room full of people I don’t know, yet if I close my eyes, I feel like I’m only with him.
Seeing him.
Feeling him.
The way his breath tickles my neck. The way I can smell his cologne even though the scent has faded some, making it obvious he put it on hours ago. His manly scent comes through the added one, and it only reminds me of the times I lay with a man, woke up with him by my side, and felt comfortable, wrapped in his arms.
It’s been too long …
I want so badly to drop the brush and paint with my hands. I’m dying to feel his skin under my fingertips, not just by the side of my hand resting against him.
I swallow as I sit back, getting green paint on my brush. I swirl the tip of the brush down the ridges of his stomach. His body jolts when I get too close to the side.
“Sorry, I tried to tell you I was ticklish,” he says.
I grin before moving back in and finishing the flower. Before I make my final stroke, he places his finger on the side of my face, tucking a stray hair that fell. The simple gesture feels familiar.
“I like seeing your face as you paint.”
I clear my throat and sit back. “I’m finished. What do you think?”
He looks down at his chest and gives a smirk in approval. “You did good. I’m impressed.” He raises his eyebrows at me. “My turn.”
I lean down to meet the end of my dress, moving it up my body.
He stops me before I pull it up too far. “Are you sure you’re okay with taking off your clothes? I mean, I can paint your arm or even your hand.”
I’ve always been modest, but something about being with him gives me a touch of brazenness and has me brushing his hand away.
I’m only wearing a dress, so I have to lift it and remove the entire thing, leaving me in a pair of black lace panties and a matching demi cup bra. “Where do you want to start?”
I see the hesitation in his expression as he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the action. His fists clench on his thighs while his chest expands with sharp, heavy breaths. “Lace on Lace.”
I giggle nervously. “It’s like wearing a bathing suit. Except it’s my underwear in a room full of strangers. I’m banking on the fact that they’re all too infatuated with each other right now to notice.”
“They’re infatuated all right.”
I hold my arms out to him. “I am your canvas.”
He takes a brush and studies me with a furrowed brow. “Where would you like me to paint?”
“Anywhere you’d like.”
A slow, sexy smile crosses his lips as he dips the brush in a ruby red.
“Now, it’s my turn to ask the questions,” he says as he paints. Starting at my clavicle, he makes thin
strokes, cascading down toward the swell of my breasts and stopping short of the lacy fabric. “Why don’t I ever see you leaving the building on a date?”
Tingling sensations run from my chest down to my core as the brush lines the skin.
“I’m happier with the men I conjure up in my head than the ones in the real world.”
“Are you sure?”
Every time he lifts the brush to get more paint, I feel myself taking a desperately needed breath.
“I don’t know who he is, but the man who caused you to escape into your world of fake heroes and hide from the touch of a man was a coward.”
With him so near, I have a hard time breathing. He gets closer to give more detail to one of the rose petals he’s painting, and as I feel his breath against my skin, goose bumps instantly cover my body.
“How so?” I pant lightly.
His head is close to mine, and he only turns to meet my eyes. “He was too afraid that he wouldn’t be able to handle a gorgeous, fiery woman.”
Seeing him stare at me from such a low position causes a sharpness in my chest. I stumble over my words as I take a shaky breath in. I’m finally able to whisper, “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
He grins, and chills cover me again. “Only when I absolutely mean it.”
The peony I drew on his chest pales in comparison to the bold, large petals of the flower he’s making on me. Mine is puny while his is majestic.
“You’re an artist,” I say, catching him off guard. “The florals you create at the shop is an underappreciated art form. I’m in awe of you.”
“Says the woman who weaves words to make romantic heroes that women only dream about.”
“So, you agree they don’t really exist,” I challenge.
“Maybe you just need to dream while you’re awake.”
His words are poignant. I always feel like I’m dreaming when I’m writing, mixing prose together to create a world that only exists under the veil of night and literature. I don’t only want to feel these emotions when I’m reading a book. I want to touch and experience it in the light of day.