Painting Rainbows

by Kiera Jayne

  Contents

  About This Book

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Kiera Jayne

  Painting Rainbows

  Copyright © 2018 Kiera Gavegan

  All Rights Reserved

  No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.

  Cover Design © Designed With Grace; www.designedwgrace.com

  Cover Image © sergiophoto

  Interior Formatting © Tiffany Black; T.E. Black Designs; www.teblackdesigns.com

  Layla is sick and tired of Rainbows. They appear in all of her paintings, but they’re not a true reflection of her life.

  Nursing a broken heart, Layla has retreated to a small town in the English countryside and needs something to occupy her mind. Deciding to enrol in a community art class, she’s surprised to find the nude model is the sexiest man in town and someone she has clashed with in the past.

  Playful and bold, Grady never takes life too seriously, living every day to its fullest. What begins as a way to make some quick cash soon becomes much more as he pursues Layla. He encourages her to embrace her artworks, to open her heart to love and to discover the joy that can be found in PAINTING RAINBOWS.

  Dedicated to all the dreamers, the creatives, to those who think they are not good enough. Find your rainbow. Because YOU ARE.

  The old oak tree in the playground of Upper Telwick Nursery School had branches that were far reaching, and a trunk full of crags. Rumour was that it had been around since the Middle Ages, that it had survived wars and peacetime, been witness to the happiest and most grim moments of human history in this tiny little place in Northern England.

  Right now, little Edwin Simmons had decided to seek refuge within the branches of the ancient plant, and no matter what Mrs. Norman tried, refused to come down.

  The teacher placed her hands on her hips. “Edwin, will you please come down from there?”

  Edwin shook his head, his light brown hair flipping around his rounded, cherub-like cheeks.

  “Playtime’s over. It’s time to go in.”

  Edwin ignored the teacher, turning his brown eyes away from her.

  “He still won’t come down?”

  Mrs. Norman glanced at the young woman who joined her and followed her green-eyed gaze back up to the boy. “If he doesn’t come down soon, Layla, he’ll catch a chill with the weather starting to turn and all.”

  Layla glanced at the dark clouds on the horizon, then back up at the little boy. The quietest, most introverted boy in the class, so of course he was targeted by the more brazen children. “Let me try.”

  Mrs. Norman tsked. “I’ve tried everything.”

  “There’s one thing you haven’t tried,” Layla countered.

  “What’s that?” Mrs. Norman sent her a quizzical look.

  Layla tightened the messy bun on top of her head, stepped over to the tree trunk and began to climb.

  “Are you mad?” Mrs. Norman exclaimed.

  “Chill out, Anne. I mean, Mrs. Norman,” Layla threw over her shoulder as she hauled herself upwards. “We’ll be in soon.”

  “All of you Aussies are crazy.” Mrs. Norman turned and marched back to the classroom, leaving Layla to it.

  As Layla reached Edwin’s level, she noticed shocked admiration on his face. She sat down beside the boy on the branch. “Hey, Edwin.”

  “You climbed the tree!”

  “So I did.”

  “I never saw an adult climb a tree before!” Edwin exclaimed.

  Layla shrugged. “Maybe the adults you know didn’t grow up where I did.”

  “Australia?” Edwin guessed.

  “In Australia with a big gum tree in my back yard.” Layla threw her arms out as she visualised the tree.

  Edwin fell silent.

  Layla swung her legs as she waited for him to say something, but there was nothing. “Are you okay, sweetie?”

  Edwin half-nodded, half-shrugged.

  “Did you climb up here for fun or to get away from Winston?”

  Edwin clamped his mouth shut.

  “It’s okay, you know. He’s a bit of a brat, isn’t he?” Layla whispered.

  Edwin gaped at her.

  Layla knew she should probably keep that kind of thing to herself, but during her short time helping at this little school, Layla had noticed Winston bully a lot of the other kids. “Did he say something mean to you?”

  Edwin nodded. “He said my daddy’s never coming back.”

  “Your dad’s overseas, isn’t he? With the army?”

  Edwin nodded once again.

  “I bet you miss him. But I bet you’re also proud of him, too.”

  His little face lit up immediately. “He gave me a medal just like his!”

  “Maybe you could show it to me sometime. But for that to happen, you kind of have to come down from the tree.”

  “Okay,” Edwin mumbled.

  Layla held her hand out to the boy and started to make a move. Then he gasped.

  “Look!” Edwin pointed towards the approaching storm and the rainbow that had appeared in the sky.

  Layla sighed.

  There had to be a rainbow, didn’t there?

  “It’s, uh . . . it’s really pretty.”

  Typically, the rain came just as school was letting out, after an afternoon of making animals out of recycled plastic and cardboard objects, which was always popular amongst the five-year-olds. Layla was helping one of the little girls into her purple coat when she noticed Winston was pushing Edwin around again. She thought she should intervene, but she was just a volunteer—it wasn't really her job to put the kids in their place.

  Mrs. Norman paused to address the young woman. “Layla? If you hang about, I'll drive you home so you don't have to walk in this mess.” She indicated the rain with a nod of her head.

  “Oh, sure thing. Thank you,” Layla replied.

  She finished helping the little girl, then snapped her line of sight back towards Edwin. She was relieved to see the boy was leaving with his mother. As the students filed out, Layla went about straightening up the classroom.

  Mrs. Norman stepped out of her office with her leather bag in her hand. “Oh, Layla, leave that. We don't want to be putting the cleaners out of work, do we?”

  Layla tried to ignore the snobbishn
ess of that comment and pasted a polite smile onto her face. “Just trying to make myself useful.”

  “Oh, you are already, trust me. Come on, let's get on home. I desperately want to read by the roaring fire with my husband and our hounds.”

  Layla scooped up her handbag from the teacher’s desk and followed Mrs. Norman out of the classroom.

  Layla pushed the front door closed on the stone cottage she was staying in and set about peeling off the multiple layers of clothing required in this part of the world. Okay, so Canberra was cold in winter, but this place could be cold even in the late spring.

  After she showered in the bathtub-shower combo which occupied the small bathroom, Layla stoked the fire, then studied the half-finished painting she had started a week ago.

  Without much thought, Layla got to work. Painting was like second nature to her. It was something she had been doing off and on from a young age. But uni and her busy career as an assistant to an Australian senator had gotten in the way of her creative side for many years.

  Since coming to stay in her Aunty Flo’s tiny English cottage, the artist bug had struck once again. As the therapeutic feeling flowed through her, Layla began to hum to herself.

  She was snapped out of her creative zone by a loud knock on the door. As Layla looked up from her artwork, she realised how dark it had gotten—the only illumination in the gloomy room emanated from the open fireplace.

  When there was another knock, Layla put her paint brush down and went to the door. The brass knocker rattled against the white timber as she pulled the door open. Her mouth dropped when she saw an attractive young man standing on her doorstep, hunched and soaked to the bone. He shivered as rivulets of water rolled down his face, along his stubbled jaw and onto his classic white T-shirt. He tugged his leather jacket tighter around himself and stomped his black boots on the stoop.

  Okay. Layla had to admit, the man was more than attractive—he was downright—

  “It’s about bloody time,” he snapped as he pushed past her into the cottage.

  — rude. Downright rude is what he was.

  “Have you got a phone in here?”

  When Layla didn’t respond, he spun back to her.

  “Hello? Are you deaf?” He raised his voice. “PHONE! Where is it? I need to use it, now!”

  “Excuse me?” Layla rushed after him as he went in search of the device himself. “Do you make it a habit of breaking into people’s homes to use their stuff?”

  The attractive, rude man picked up the bright red, plastic rotary telephone and pressed the receiver to his ear. He waved the thing in the air. “What’s this, the 1980s?”

  “It was already here,” Layla mumbled, feeling defensive. She wasn’t sure why. He was a burglar, a trespasser. He should just be grateful she hadn’t whacked him over the head with a frying pan. Instead, here she was staring at the way his wet shirt was plastered to his abs.

  The guy glanced across at Layla’s artwork. “Nice painting. You like rainbows, huh?”

  Layla gaped at her work-in-progress. She painted another rainbow? She hadn’t even noticed.

  The guy didn't wait for her response as his phone call was answered. “Myra, hi, it’s me. I can’t get through, the stream is up. There’s flash flooding all around the area, apparently. I’m going to have to find somewhere to crash here in town.” In an instant, Layla’s burglar’s tone of voice changed. She even dared to think that it sounded caring. He paused to listen for a few moments. “It’s alright. I’m just glad you and Ed got home safe. Yeah, there are power outages here, too. It’s alright, I’ll deal with that. Yeah, you stay safe, too. Take care.” He hung up and placed the phone back on its stand.

  Layla frowned in confusion. “Did you say flash flooding and power outages? Where?”

  The guy regarded her like she was out of her mind. “Here. Around the village.”

  “Are you serious?”

  The guy stepped across to the wall and flicked the light switch up and down a couple of times to no avail. “See?”

  “Oh.”

  Layla and the man stood there, across the room from each other as an uncomfortable silence stretched out between them. Just when Layla felt like she was going to go nuts, the man finally spoke up.

  “I’m Grady, by the way. Grady Bradbury.”

  “Layla,” she responded, watching him cautiously. “Well, then, Grady Bradbury, do you make a habit of barging your way into someone’s home uninvited?”

  He smirked at her.

  Was he finding this amusing?

  “Only when I’m soaked to the bone, freezing cold, and I can’t get home.” He moved towards her. “Do you mind?”

  Layla started. “What?”

  Grady pushed her aside and warmed himself by the fire.

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, no, of course not. Make yourself right at home.”

  As Layla stormed into the kitchen to boil the kettle, Grady’s words floated after her.

  “Are you always this friendly?”

  “What, did you expect to be treated like royalty? You broke into my home!” Layla called out.

  “I did not!”

  “Did so,” Layla grumbled under her breath as she dropped a teabag into her mug.

  “Did not.”

  Layla startled at the sound of him suddenly so close. There he was hanging in the door way, looking like the sexiest burglar she had ever seen. “Did so,” she repeated.

  “You answered the door.”

  “Yeah, but then you barged in before I could get a word in!”

  “It was emergency. I had to make sure Myra and Ed were safe. I had to let them know I was safe,” Grady explained as he ruffled his wet, dark hair with his fingers.

  “I should toss you out on your arse.”

  “So why don’t you?”

  “Because . . . it’s crazy out there,” Layla stammered.

  “I thought you didn’t realise?”

  Layla hesitated. “I didn’t.”

  The grin that crossed Grady’s face both irked Layla and made her belly do flip-flops.

  “I should absolutely throw you out. I mean, you barged in here, used my phone, warmed yourself by my fire, all without being invited.” Layla jiggled the teabag in the hot water.

  He sauntered over to her, grabbed the mug out of her hand and took a cautious sip. “I’m also stealing your tea.” He grimaced. “Needs some sugar, though. D’you mind?” He grabbed the sugar bowl and scooped some sugar into the liquid.

  Layla gritted her teeth. “Yes, I do mind, actually. I think it’s time you left.”

  “What?”

  “You need to find a place to stay, right? Then you’d better get a move on.”

  The sexy burglar’s mouth dropped open. “You’re going to send me back out in that?”

  Layla set the mug on the bench and took Grady by the arm. “Yes, I am.”

  “You cold woman!” Grady exclaimed as he swiped the hot drink up into his hands again.

  Layla tugged on his arm and Grady reluctantly followed her to the front door.

  “But. . . but that fire is so warm, and this room is so cosy, and this tea. . .” He took another sip. “Oh, this tea is delicious. Surely you have a spare bed I can sleep in? Somewhere to dry my clothes?”

  Layla opened the front door.

  Grady cringed at the loud sound of the pouring rain.

  “Let me suggest to you the Red Bear B&B?” Layla said.

  “But that’s. . . I have to ride there on my motorcycle. . . in the driving rain!”

  “Ride safe.” Layla grinned and pushed the door closed in Grady’s face.

  Layla didn’t notice him peer incredulously through the window at her as she went back to contemplate her painting.

  The next day couldn’t have been more different to the night before. Grady glanced out the tiny window of the tiny room in the Red Bear he had slept in overnight and noticed the bright sunshine glisten off the wet tiled roofs of the buildings nearby. So far, it
was the only sign of the horrid weather that had hit them last night.

  He checked the clothing he had hung over the one and only chair in the room and was pleased to find that the majority of it was dry—all except his jacket, which was still damp to the touch. The radiator had done the trick. Grady quickly dressed, gathered his things and made his way down the creaky old stairs covered in intricately designed carpet of red, blue and gold, which have been fancy at one point in its life. Now it was threadbare and in good need of replacing.

  “Good morning, Grady,” Hector, one of the B&B’s co-owners, chirped when he saw the young man.

  “Hector,” Grady replied as he dug his wallet out of his pocket. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Free for you, Grady, on account of the rubbish weather last night. If you need a bed again tonight, if the stream is still cutting you off from home, it’s all yours.”

  “Come on, mate, I have to pay you something,” Grady said.

  Hector held up his hands. “No, no. We know things are tight for you. It’s a good thing you’re doing, helping Myra out with the café, but I know it’s poorly paid. Besides, you’ve pottered about here in the past, put your handyman skills to work. Think of this as a thank you.”

  Grady pursed his lips. Hector was right, money was tight. But that was Grady’s business. He didn’t want the whole town to know and he certainly didn’t want anyone doing him any favours. Grady slammed fifty quid down on the desktop and Hector jumped a mile. “Keep the change,” Grady hissed before stepping out the door.

  Grady passed under the timber sign that sported a medieval-style red bear rising up on his hind legs as he exited the B&B. The ivy leaves that hung around the door of the accommodations rustled in the breeze as he lifted his wrist to glance at his watch. It was then that Grady realised he was late opening the café. Leaving his motorbike in its park in front of the B&B, he broke into a run and raced down the narrow lane with slate grey stone storefronts on one side and mismatched, Tudor-style and eighteenth century colourful buildings opposite Myra’s Munchies. He always thought it was an awful name, but Myra loved it and it was her business, so who was he to argue? He still gave her flack for it, though.