by Holly Rayner
As I reached for a brush, he added, “That, and if you mix all the colors you’ll end up with brown.”
We laughed, he grabbed a brush of his own and got started.
At the beginning, I only circumspectly watched Brock out of the corner of my eye, his face focused yet calm, a strange light in his eyes as his brush flowed across the page.
Until he growled, “Get to work or your canvas is getting confiscated.”
Surprised, I glanced at his face to see a silly grin.
Next thing I knew, his brush was sweeping over to my canvas, flicking a navy line in the center.
“There, I gave you a starting point,” he said, returning to his own canvas.
I looked at the navy line dubiously. A blank white canvas and some random line were supposed to inspire me? What had I been thinking, wanting to paint anyway? I was no artist. I was a logical, curious private investigator who, even as a child, had hated coloring.
But as I stared at the line, it began to grow and swell with potential, swirling into a raindrop, into a bent-over back, an outstretched finger. Suddenly, I knew what I was going to paint.
I started out with more navy, outlining the spread-fingered figure with her thin, ponytailed head looking up. Then it was some brown for the outside, for the bricks around the window. There was yellow for the inside, a whole coat of it for the window. Then black was for the figures joined at the arms, the ones bent over the table with the cocaine baggie between them. White was for the baggie’s contents, yellow to cover it all again, only halfway. The dark, sad figures were bathed in yellow light, the yellow reaching out, brushing against the spread-fingered girl outside. Above it all was more navy for the uncaring sky, a dab of yellow for the sliver of moon. And then I was done, finished and looking over Brock’s shoulder at his canvas, which contained army-green figures with their guns connected in the center, all of it light-haloed just like mine.
“Not bad. You have an artist’s eye,” Brock said with an approving look at my canvas.
My gaze slid from my canvas to his and then back to mine again, and I laughed.
“Don’t tease me.”
Brock squeezed my shoulder.
“I’m not teasing. I mean it. That’s a really compelling scene, and those colors you used to frame it, the point of view, it’s all great. What’s it of?”
My gaze slid back to the somber scene, and my voice caught in my throat.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t feel comfortable,” Brock said, squeezing my shoulder again.
“No. I…”
I thought back to the scene, to me crouched outside the window while I watched Charlie and some girl snort coke off our living room table. How ironic it had been, watching this low-bloused, short-skirted stranger with her ass parked between my boyfriend’s legs, leaning over and snorting drugs that had doubtlessly been bought with my money off my table—and there I had been feeling like I was the stranger.
“It was just an experience I had a few years ago. Someone who let me down.”
Brock’s face went serious. He nodded.
“Sorry.”
I shook my head.
“No. It’s fine. It’s the past now. It’s fine.”
Brock nodded as his face got even more serious.
“Oh, Alexa…”
“What is it? What’s wrong?” I asked as he neared my face, peering at it intently.
“Ah, nothing except”—he tapped his blue-tipped finger to my cheek—“this.”
Stumbling backward, I scolded him. “Brock! Now there’s blue on my face, isn’t there?”
He shrugged and then flicked the same finger across my other cheek.
“Maybe.”
I snatched the orange tube off the floor, opened it, and squirted some into my palm.
“Okay, now you’re totally getting it!”
Stepping back, Brock dove for the purple and squirted some into both palms.
“Oh really?” he asked, lifting his purple-palmed hands.
I backed up, shaking my head.
“Okay, maybe we should call a truce?”
But Brock was advancing nonetheless, his purple-coated palms extended.
“No. I think you just laid down a challenge.”
I backed away into the kitchen and then to the front door.
“No, Brock. Please—”
But that smile of his was merciless, and as I ripped open the door with my clean hand and fled into the still-falling snow outside, he raced after me.
The chase didn’t last long, just long enough for me to trip over a snowbank, fall to the snowy ground, and for Brock to cover my shivering form with purple handprints while I slapped back my own orange revenge.
Our hands were nearly paintless and our bodies were covered with orange and purple handprints by the time we stopped and collapsed back into the snow, utterly spent.
After a few seconds of this freezing freedom, I asked Brock, “But why?”
To which he rose and, offering me a hand, declared, “I’m not sorry.”
I accepted the hand and rose with a glare.
He held my gaze, his smile challenging my glare. We stood there for a minute while I tried not to be infected by those upturned lips and those merry eyes. But it was no use; soon my smile was as broad as Brock’s.
“Well I’m not going to bed like this,” I declared as we made our way back to the cabin.
“Oh, yeah, of course. There’s a shower and everything,” Brock said in that strange tone again.
As I walked beside him, it looked like his cheeks were rosy. It was probably from the cold, but I hadn’t noticed them before when we’d been paint fighting, or even when we’d lain out in the snow. Weird.
Once we got inside, Brock strode directly to the door under the loft.
“There’s the bathroom and shower,” he said in a robotic voice, avoiding my gaze.
“Okay…” I said, unsure what to say.
I had planned on taking a shower later, but this seemed like my cue to get it over with now for whatever reason.
So in I went, not saying anything or even looking at Brock again. Clearly, that was what he wanted.
Just as I had started getting comfortable with him, he had to go and act weird.
As I looked in the mirror, I caught my rosy, excited face returning to normal. Brock’s sudden coldness was good, actually. With all these activities, I had been getting off track from what I was here for: finding evidence of Brock’s criminal activities. And although I had done it, I still needed to get out of there and hand over what I’d found to Russell Snow. There was no point to getting all warm and fuzzy about my target, which was what Brock Anderson was—all that Brock Anderson was.
The shower, with its warm water, was a nice relief from the cold outside. Gratefully, I let the hot droplets roll down my skin, closing my eyes and savoring the feeling. Just as I was fully relaxed and leaning into the corner of the shower, letting the water envelop me, however, my phone rang.
Although it was in my coat in the cabin outside the bathroom, its loud, annoying ring was still audible.
“You want me to get that?” Brock called from what sounded like the loft.
“No. I—”
I raced out of the shower, hastily throwing my paint-covered sweater over myself as I ran out of the bathroom and grabbed my coat. Then I froze.
Brock was not in the loft as I had thought. He was sitting on the couch, gaping at my hastily covered, half-naked body.
Our gazes met, and I raced back into the bathroom, my phone still blaring.
It was Russell Snow. Again. God, that guy had a knack for calling at the worst possible time.
I hung up and then sent him a message: Now is not a good time.
Once I got back in the shower, it wasn’t the same. I was still on edge and could no longer relax. I finished scrubbing off my paint-covered hands and then turned off the shower and came out.
It seemed silly to put my dirty, paint-covered
clothes back on, but I didn’t have much choice. I was in the cabin of a man I barely knew in Nederland in the middle of nowhere; it was not exactly the Hilton Hotel.
When I came out, Brock was still sitting on the couch, staring at the wall. Seeing me, he rose.
“I just wanted to say sorry for before,” he stammered. “I wasn’t thinking, and…I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
“It’s fine,” I said, still standing in the bathroom door awkwardly, staring at the wall myself.
After a minute of this, Brock went over to the kitchen.
“I’m going to make some hot chocolate.”
At the stove, he paused, threw a glance at the snow-filled window, and then looked back at me.
“Looks like it’s going to continue overnight.”
“Yeah.”
“You can stay the night if you want.”
He turned away before my reaction could register on my face.
Though really, I didn’t know how my face looked at the moment. I already had my evidence. Would staying the night be a good idea?
A quick glance out the window confirmed that it wasn’t just a good idea; it was basically the only viable one. It was snowing even harder now. Navigating that bumpy road would be hard enough with a station wagon, let alone my little sedan.
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay,” he said.
And maybe it was just me, but it sounded like Brock was smiling as he said it. It didn’t take long for the hot chocolate to be ready. Brock handed me a cup and then a bag of marshmallows.
“Have at it.”
I laughed.
“You’re going to regret saying that.”
“No, really, you’re a guest here.”
“Okay,” I said, before proceeding to pour in as many marshmallows as would fit into my cup.
Once the tiny white things were almost spilling over the sides, I handed the bag back to Brock.
He gave a soft chuckle.
“Wow, you really like your sugar, don’t you? Though I can’t say you didn’t warn me.”
I responded by giving him a cheeky grin. He raised his cup to mine. We toasted, and he said, “To delicious cookies and terrible storms.”
After we sipped our drinks, he smiled.
“I’m really glad you made the crazy drive up here after me. I…normally don’t get along with people this well.”
“I am too,” I said.
But my answer didn’t seem to please him.
“Really, I mean it though,” he said, “There’s something about you…the art, our sense of humor; we have so much in common. I’d like to see you again after this.”
Before I could respond, his face darkened and he shook his head.
“Though I’m not staying all that much longer. Can’t.”
We sat there for a few minutes, sipping our hot chocolates and not looking at each other. By then, Brock was right beside me, his leg pressed against mine, sending warm pangs of longing up and down my body. I didn’t move away, but I didn’t move closer either. Brock was the target, nothing more, and he had to stay that way if I was going to complete this job successfully.
Gradually, more and more of Brock’s body was pressing against mine—his knee, his torso.
Then I felt his breath on my ear as he said, “Alexa.”
I turned to face him, and he stood up and looked away.
“Want to go snowshoeing?”
I stared at him for a minute, searching his face for a trace of amusement, a twinkle in his eye, a half grin, anything. But his face kept its serious expression.
“Okay,” I found myself saying.
He grinned, went over to the chest, and paused.
“Weird…”
“What is it?”
He crouched down and then shook his head.
“Nothing. It’s just that I always latch the chest closed, but last time I must’ve forgotten.”
I made a noncommittal sound of agreement, hoping it was louder than the thumping of my terrified heart. Brock slid the chest over, revealing two pairs of snowshoes behind it.
“Don’t worry. Snowshoeing is just like walking but with big feet. You shouldn’t have any problem.”
“How do you know I’ve never snowshoed before?”
Brock’s amused glance scanned me.
“Just do.”
I sighed and then cast a worried look at the window, where impossibly huge-looking flakes of snow were falling.
“Okay, you got me, but are you sure this is a good idea?”
A smile playing on his face, Brock’s glance flicked to where mine was.
“Nope, but the best ideas often aren’t.”
My gaze flicked from his easy confidence to the window’s raging storm and then back again.
“Oh, fine then.”
Brock grinned and then strode to the door and opened it. I followed, throwing on my coat and then putting up my hood before looking over my shoulder one last time at the cabin. What was I getting myself into?
Chapter Seven
It was like having big feet as it turned out. Brock hadn’t been kidding. After he helped me strap the big wooden things to my boots and strapped on his own, we began walking. It didn’t take long for me to see that snowshoeing was just that: having massive, giant-sized feet. Not to mention it was incredibly fun. Though the snow was already deep, our giant shoes crunched atop it easily, allowing us to leisurely tromp our way behind the cabin and deep into the snowy forest.
By now the air was alive with snow, the trees emitting a near-constant stream of flakes.
I started out treading the path Brock had made with his snowshoes, but soon I ventured out by myself, stomping out my own path in the snow. It was weird, this walking with big feet. It gave me a rush, a strange feeling of warm exhilaration amid all this cold ice. Even when I fell face-first into the snow, I only laughed, although my hands were immediately ice cold and red.
“Here,” Brock said, holding out his gloved hand, which I gladly accepted.
He lifted me until I was face-to-face with him. His brown beard was now flecked with snow, but his maple eyes were smoldering with fire.
“You okay?” he asked me softly.
“Yeah. I think so,” I said.
Brock brushed a snow-solidified strand of hair out of my face, and I let him, transfixed as I was by those tender, hazel eyes. His fingers lingered at my cheek, tracing down it and brushing over my lips. Then he was lowering his face to mine, bringing his lips to mine.
Amid the cold, swirling snow, touched by his cold, caressing fingers, his lips were warm.
When our lips touched, warmth blossomed through me, from my lips, down my throat, to my chest, down my arms, and to my hands, until they were clasping his face eagerly, our lips pressed together. While I had been freezing cold a minute ago, now I was entirely and utterly warm all over.
The snowy forest slid away; my job and identity fell to the wayside. All there was were those firm lips and this man—this handsome, dangerous, incredible man—his hands clasping mine and his lips tracing my jawline.
I lost myself in it, in the motions, the feelings, the want—which may have been why I stumbled forward and fell again. Brock caught me halfway, but I could see it was too late. He looked at me with a new consciousness of what he’d done, with guilty eyes that escaped my gaze as soon as they could.
He helped me up and then stepped back, murmuring, “I’m sorry.”
I put my hand on his chest.
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
But he shook his head and stepped back again.
“I meant what I said, Alexa. I won’t be around for long—I can’t be. No matter how much I like you, this can’t work. You don’t know everything about me.”
I stared at him, at this cold, unfeeling-looking man who was almost unrecognizable from the warm man who had been kissing me moments ago. The truth bubbled up my throat: how I knew what he was, what he had been, the real reason I
was here at all. But it stopped at my lips and then tumbled back down my throat.
I looked at him with cold, hard eyes myself and said, “Okay.”
We tramped back to the cabin in silence. The magic was gone. All that remained was the cold and the equally frigid realization of my stupidity. Kissing Brock Anderson—the target of all people, the man I was going to turn over to my client. What had I been thinking?
The snow was swirling down harder than ever; the whole world was one endlessly white series of trees with white flakes surging everywhere.
It seemed like forever had come and gone when we finally came to the snow-coated back of the cabin. I followed Brock inside and took off my coat and boots in silence.
“Good thing we have the fire,” Brock said, beelining for it.
He put in some logs and lit them with a lighter he got out of his pocket.
I flopped my shivering self on the couch, staring at the fire, at the fiery tongues flickering laughter at me.
“I’m sorry, Alexa,” he said, sitting beside me.
“It’s okay,” I said, not looking at him.
“No,” he said. “No, it’s not.”
He stood up.
“I’m going to make some more hot chocolate.”
I stared at the flames, wishing I could pick them up, take them in my hands, and take them outside, through the snow and down the path so that they could show me my way home. Why did I always have to go falling for the wrong guy?
The kettle rumbled to life, and then Brock said, “I’m adding Baileys to mine…you?”
I stared at the flames. As the “no” I should have said flickered along with them, a “sure” escaped my lips. Brock came over with two steaming cups a few minutes later and handed me one. At the sight of mine topped with more marshmallows than even I had put on last time, I couldn’t help but smile.
“It’s okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, taking a small sip. “Yeah. It’s better than okay, thank you.”
And it was. All of it, the warm, soothing fireplace, the comfy, mahogany couch that I’d sunk into, the delicious hot chocolate and alcohol something, it was good. It was great, even.