by Sarah Curtis
She jogged up the stairs to the third floor and entered room three-o-two. The canvases they’d prepared were set up on easels in three rows of five. Ivy found her spot, tossed her messenger bag to the floor, and took a seat on the stool in front of her blank canvas. Her homework assignment from the previous class had been to think about what she wanted to paint.
That had proved harder than she thought it would.
But after a week of internet browsing and Pinterest searches, she kept circling back to the same thing. A deserted football field in the dark of night, the bright stadium lights shining on the turf.
She didn’t know why.
Well, she knew why she chose the subject, but she could only guess as to why she wanted to paint the field deserted.
Oh, she was sure some psychologist or therapist would have a field day—no pun intended—supplying her with that answer, but her layman’s theory would have to suffice. An empty field meant no football.
Who would have thought painting could be so therapeutic?
Cassie, one of her classmates, took a seat at the easel next to hers. Blond, blue-eyed, and bubbly, she was the perfect foil to Ivy’s bleak mood.
“I’m so excited we get to start painting today.” Cassie shifted through her supplies.
Unlike Ivy who only planned to take a few classes to supplement her hobby, Cassie was there to get her degree. She wanted to be an artist. A real one. With paintings in a gallery and the whole nine yards.
Cassie reached into her bag and pulled out a pencil case. “Do you know what you’re going to paint?”
The subject matter too personal, Ivy didn’t want to share. “I’m not one-hundred percent sure yet,” she hedged. “I thought I’d play it by ear.”
Cassie nodded. “Let inspiration guide you. I like it.”
“Do you know what you’re painting?”
Ivy half-listened as Cassie rattled on about a meadow full of flowers and all the different colors she wanted to use, filling the time until their teacher arrived.
All heads turned when Mr. Anderson walked into the room. And not just because he arrived. If Ivy wasn’t still hung up on Colt, she’d be as googly-eyed as the rest of the women in the room, too. Longish, brown, shaggy hair that curled at the ends, lanky build but with defined muscles, and chiseled features with big, brown eyes, he was the epitome of a sexy, starving artist. He smiled at the class and Ivy didn’t think she was imagining the collective sigh she heard from all the women—and quite possibly a few of the men.
“Good morning. Is everyone ready to start drawing?”
There were a few yeses and yeahs. Some guy in the back shouted, no, which caused a round of laughter.
“Well, if everyone’s ready, except Mr. Fairbanks,” that had everyone laughing again, “let’s get started.”
Ivy leaned down and nabbed her bag from the floor then scrounged around the bottom for a pencil. She didn’t have a handy case like Cassie and decided the art supply store would be her first stop after class.
She stared at the seemingly endless stretch of white canvas, not sure where to start. She discreetly eyed her neighbor as Cassie used broad strokes, outlining the basics. Ivy would start with that.
She drew the field and the stands and was working on the intricate workings of the large, overhead lights when she felt a presence at her back.
“You’re adding too many details and that will make it hard to fill in when it comes time to paint.” Mr. Anderson’s head came alongside hers. “You don’t want it to look like a paint-by-numbers.” He smiled to take away the sting of his words.
If she wasn’t still hurting, she’d think he had a nice smile. She also got a whiff of minty freshness when he talked. Ivy gave him a close-lipped smile in return. She was ninety-nine percent sure she had coffee breath.
“Pencil in a suggestion of the picture and use your imagination for the rest. Leave room for the paint to give you your shadows. Understand?”
At her nod, he gave her another really nice smile and made his way back to the front of the class. “Every sketch needs to be signed off by me before you start painting. I don’t want to see any of you reaching for your acrylics until then… That goes for you too, Mr. Lopez.” There were a few titters and the room went silent again.
The hour flew by. Ivy got her sketch finished and approved. She was excited to start painting it, but that would need to wait until the next class.
“I’ll see you next week.” Cassie jumped up from her seat and hurried for the door.
Ivy wasn’t in a rush so waited for the mad dash to thin before standing.
“Ms. Clark?”
She turned her attention to Mr. Anderson, standing by his desk. “Yes?”
“Can I speak with you a moment?”
Uh oh. Being singled out wasn’t usually a good thing. Her feet dragged a little as she made her way to the front of the class.
“Don’t look so worried,” he said once she stopped a few feet away. He smiled reassuringly. “I noticed mine is the only class on your schedule.”
He’d pulled up her schedule? “Yes.”
“Do you mind if I ask why?” Leaning against his desk, he folded his arms. The muscles in his forearms flexed, visible from the pushed-up sleeves of his Henley.
“Did you know, Henley shirts got their name because they were the traditional uniform for rowers in the English town of Henley-on-Thames?”
“No, I didn’t know that.” He smirked and Ivy felt like an idiot.
But not enough of one to stop her from blurting, “Yeah, and the first Henley Royal Regatta was in eighteen thirty-nine.”
His smirk grew into a broad smile. “Are you ignoring my question?”
She hiked her bag strap higher onto her shoulder. “Sorry, I just spout random facts sometimes.” A habit she needed to break as only Colt seemed to find it interesting.
And there he was, back in her thoughts. Again.
Mr. Anderson raised his brows. He was waiting for her to answer.
“Sorry,” she repeated, then pursed her lips. Why did she keep apologizing? She took a breath, centering herself. “What was the question?”
“I’m curious why you’re only taking one class.”
“Oh, right. Well, I do plan to take more. I took this one to kind of test the waters. I wasn’t sure if I’d enjoy painting or if I’d even be any good at it.”
“So, this is the first painting class you’ve taken?”
“Yes. I always meant to in college, but my schedule was too full to squeeze a class in for fun.”
He nodded as though that made perfect sense. “And how are you enjoying it so far?”
“I’m loving it. I can’t wait to start painting next week.”
“You don’t need to wait until next week. I’m usually here most evenings until at least nine and my last class always ends at six. You’re welcome anytime to work on it.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. I work all hours, so my schedule is never set.”
That seemed to interest him, his posture perked up. “What do you do?”
“I’m a graphic designer.”
“So, you have an art background.”
“Yes, just not a real one.”
A line appeared between his brows. “Real?”
“Yeah, you know,” Ivy waved her arm to sweep the classroom. “With paint and easels. Tangible.”
His frown deepened. “Tangible or not, you realize what you do is art, right?”
“Well, yeah, I guess. To a point.”
He shook his head. “Not to a point, it is. Just another medium. You’re still expressing yourself artistically, so it’s art.”
“I guess I never thought of it like that.”
“Well, start thinking like that. You have to believe you’re an artist or you’ve failed this class before even starting.”
He was right and she spent the whole walk home thinking about that. Just because she used images and words to convey her subject didn’t me
an she wasn’t an artist. She still had to have an eye for lines, shapes, color, and typography. And if she didn’t have an artist’s mindset, her teacher was right—she’d fail.
Emerson hightailed it around the bar as soon as Ivy walked through the door. “I missed you so much yesterday.” She pulled Ivy into a tight hug before stepping back but still keeping hold of her shoulders. “No one else here can appreciate a nice ass in tight pants the way you can. I swear, all my comments fell on deaf ears.”
As they were usually the only females at the bar who watched the game, she could believe that.
A frown pulled at Emerson’s lips. “What’s wrong? Are you sick? You’re not looking so great.”
Tears gathered in her eyes and she blinked quickly to keep them from falling. She’d known Emerson would be her undoing.
Emerson’s frown deepened. “Not sick. Something else. Something worse. What happened?”
Sucking back her emotions, Ivy took a fortifying breath. “I called things off with Colt.”
“Oh shit. Okay, don’t move.” She whipped off her apron and tossed it behind the bar. “Matt!” she yelled. “I’m leaving and I probably won’t be back. Can you close up?”
Matt looked up from filling a beer. “Sure, no problem. What should I tell lover boy if he shows up?”
Lover Boy? She was sooo going to call Oz that from now on.
“Tell him I’m on best-friend duty.”
Flashing his eyes to Ivy and looking bewildered, he said, “Huh?”
Emerson waved a hand. “Never mind. I’ll text him and let him know where I’m at.”
“And just where will we be?” Ivy asked as Emerson looped her arm with hers and steered them out the door.
“My house. We need a girls’ night in STAT. Facials, nails, hair, and margaritas all to the backdrop of a Marvel marathon. We’re gonna binge on tequila and Chrises.”
Ivy couldn’t help but smile at her friend. Yes, that’s exactly what she needed.
Chapter Twenty-one
Colt
“So, Chet, do you think today’s win will finally knock the giant chip off P. Colton’s shoulder?” announcer number one asked.
“Well, Steve,” the second announcer replied, “it should, but I hope for the Phantoms’ sake it doesn’t. It’s his drive and dedication that makes him one of the best players in the league. I’ll even be so bold as to make a prediction. With the way he’s been playing this season, I bet money he’ll take his team to the Super Bowl this year.”
Colt clicked off the TV, determination filling his veins. Damn straight, he would. He tossed the remote onto the coffee table and it skidded into his phone. Colt picked it up and checked for missed calls.
His new habit.
Nothing from Ivy.
She didn’t want him to text or call, said it was too painful, and he’d been forcing himself to respect her wishes. The last thing he wanted was to cause Ivy any more hurt. But he’d misjudged how hard it would be not talking with her. He missed their nightly phone calls. Missed her smoky-gray eyes. Missed her smile.
Hell, he missed her.
If he could just win the Super Bowl, his life would be so different. If he didn’t need to put all his focus into winning, he’d have more time for his personal life. If he had that time maybe Ivy would be willing to give him another chance.
If.
If.
If.
New determination filled him. He would make it happen. There were only a couple more games to go. He would win.
And if you don’t?
Colt shoved that thought from his head.
He couldn’t afford to lose.
Ivy
A body filled the seat beside her, and Ivy looked over to find Cassie, head bent, searching for something in the depths of her bag. “Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.”
“What’s wrong?” Ivy asked as Cassie pulled out a few items, digging to the bottom.
“I can’t find my cell. I think I left it in the car. At least I hope I left it in the car and not at home. I just remembered I have a dentist appointment scheduled for the same time as my next class and if I don’t call to cancel, I’ll get charged the office fee.”
“Do you want to borrow mine?” Ivy fished her phone from her back pocket and held it out.
“Thanks, you’re a lifesaver.” She woke the phone. “Um, you have a missed call and voicemail from someone named Colt.”
Surprised, Ivy’s heart started pounding. “Go ahead and make your phone call, I’ll check it when you’re done.”
Colt had texted regularly at first, but once she put her foot down, he'd respected her boundaries, and it had been a little over three weeks since she’d last heard from him. Which made her all the more curious why he was calling. She’d been keeping up with the news enough to know he was okay. Great, in fact. He’d held on to his winning streak and now the Phantoms were headed for the conference championships—the last game they needed to win to make it to the Super Bowl.
The time it took for Cassie to look up the number and call felt like eons, but finally, she handed her phone back… Just as their teacher walked in.
“Good morning. Is everyone ready to get their paint on?”
A buzz rose from the class collective as Ivy clicked through screens to reach her voicemail.
“Cell phone away please, Ms. Clark. You know how I feel about those infernal gadgets.”
Right. It’s a creativity killer. She slipped her phone back into her pocket and gave the teacher her attention. “Sorry.”
“Great. Now, by show of hands, is there anyone with a sketch that needs approval?” Two students raised their hands. “Okay, I’ll get to you both in a minute. For the rest of you, go ahead and get started. I’ll make the rounds for anyone who has questions.”
Ivy had one, but it wasn’t something Mr. Anderson could answer. Only the cell phone burning a hole in her pocket could. But she couldn’t risk taking it out no matter how antsy she was to listen to Colt’s message. So instead, she stared unseeingly at her canvas.
Soon the broad strokes and shapes of her drawing pulled her in. She was tackling a beach scene, and her mind started to formulate the different colors she would need. Shades of yellow and brown for the sand. A variety of blue hues for the ocean.
So lost in thought, she hadn’t noticed anyone come up behind her until she heard Mr. Anderson’s voice near her ear. “Everything okay here?”
Her hand flew to her chest. “You startled me.”
He grimaced, looking contrite. “Sorry about that. Do you need help? You’re the only one not started.”
Ivy glanced around the room, noticing everyone busily working on their piece. She quickly grabbed her palette and a tube of paint.
“Remember, it’s better to start with the mid-level tones and do the shading and highlighting after.”
“Right.” Ivy dropped the paint and picked up a tube a few shades lighter. She squeezed a dollop onto her palette and loaded her brush.
“Don’t be afraid to make a mistake,” he said loudly for the whole class to hear as he walked toward his desk. “The only way to learn is to try and try again.”
Lost in her work Ivy was able to put Colt and his mystery message out of her mind, but as soon as class ended, her cell was the first thing she reached for.
“Hot date tonight?” Cassie motioned to the cell clutched in Ivy’s hand. “You’ve been dying to listen to that all through class and that could only mean two things. New guy or ex guy. Seriously, your willpower is better than mine. I would’ve snuck to the bathroom after ten minutes of class.”
“Not a date.” Ivy hiked the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder.
“Ah, so the ex.”
Ivy didn’t answer as they started walking for the door.
That must have been answer enough or Cassie was just that perceptive. “Fresh breakup or is the guy just not getting the memo?”
Cassie was sweet so Ivy didn’t want to be rude, but she also didn’t wa
nt to share. She tried for vague. “Neither. I have no idea why he’s calling.” But she wanted to find out. And unfortunately, she didn’t see that happening anytime soon with Cassie glued to her side.
“My last boyfriend didn’t get the memo,” Cassie said as they made their way down the stairs. “He texted for weeks after we broke up, wanting to get back together. I thought I’d need to get a restraining order.”
Worried, Ivy asked, “He’s not still bothering you, is he?”
Cassie waved a hand. “Oh, no. This was last year. He stopped after hooking up with a girl from our Lit class.”
Ah. High school. Over-the-top teenage angst and drama. Ivy had forgotten how young Cassie was.
“Whelp, as much as I’m dying to know about your mystery message, this is my next class.” She stopped in front of a door on the first floor. “But just a warning, I’ll be asking about it next week.”
Ivy laughed along with her and waved goodbye, heading out of the building. She made it halfway home before she couldn’t wait any longer, stopping in the shade of a tall building to listen to Colt’s message.
Her eyes got glassy, and her hand tightened on her phone at the sound of his deep, rumbling voice.
“Hey, um… I was wondering if you could come to the championship game. I know it might still be too soon, but I’d… really like you there. We’re playing in Phoenix on the sixteenth. If you can make it, call me and I’ll arrange the flight. I, um, hope to hear from you.”
Standing on the sidewalk, watching the traffic zip by, Ivy listened to Colt’s message three more times. Then she pulled up her contacts but instead of dialing Colt, she called Emerson.
“Are you going to the championship game?” Ivy asked by way of greeting after Emerson answered.