by K. K. Allen
I try not to react to her words, but my stomach knots. If anyone spoke Jaxon’s name in Durham, I definitely didn’t hear it. Him owning a paint class is something I would remember.
“But—this town is so small. How can he possibly fill up a class?”
Claire’s brows shoot up as she points to the room next door. “You’ve seen him, right? The brooding hunk of meat that just swayed his ass into his art studio? Don’t tell my husband I just said that, but it’s true. The man is a hot commodity for miles. We’re talking people who give up their Friday nights in Asheville just to drive here and take a class. It doesn’t hurt that he’s a creative genius, either. If Jaxon listened to anything I said, he could turn that paint class into an art gallery, but he doesn’t paint as much as he used to.”
Looking around again, I take in the art as if for the first time. “Did Jaxon paint these?” I already know the answer, but I need to hear it for myself.
Her gaze travels with mine. “Every single one. I don’t think I could afford them otherwise. These are the ones he refuses to sell.” Her eyes crinkle in the corners when she smiles.
I love how close she and Jaxon seem to be. And I’m happy to know Danny found someone special to share his life with.
“Anyway, we usually sell tickets for the classes online, but sometimes people come in hoping to find something new for sale and end up getting tickets for his class as a consolation prize.” She winks. “He’s booked for the next month, though, so the only way anyone can get a ticket is if there’s a cancellation. We’ve had to turn down more people than I care to acknowledge lately.” She rolls her eyes, as if there’s some discontentment surrounding that subject.
“Why doesn’t he raise the price of tickets? Or add another instructor? If the demand is that high—” But Claire’s already shaking her head.
“He won’t. No one can teach like that boy, and he doesn’t do any of this for the money. The price he charges pays for the materials and overhead. Every tip gets donated. His profits are zilch.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. How does he live?”
“You don’t know the story?”
I shake my head. “It’s been a long time, Claire. And we’ve barely spoken since I’ve been back.”
A flicker of guilt crosses her expression before she lowers her voice and responds. “I don’t know the whole story, and it’s really not my place to say, but Jax and his parents had a falling out years ago. He wanted to focus on art, and they wanted him to go to school. When he refused, they left him the money they’d saved up for his college and their estate, which includes a dozen rental cottages. They left him everything of theirs that had to do with Balsam Grove, told him it was his to do as he pleased with, and took off. After—well, you know—I guess they wanted zero reminders of this place…and they never came back.”
“Jesus.”
There was tension between Jaxon and his parents before, but as far as I knew, nothing that could tear their family apart.
Claire nods. “You’re telling me. Danny and I met in college, and I didn’t even hesitate to move here after graduation. After living in the city my whole life, I wanted simple.” She laughs as if something crosses her mind as she says the word simple. “I don’t think I realized how small this town really was, but I was blinded by love.” She shakes her head, her heart eyes practically throbbing in their sockets. “Tanner’s daddy, Sheriff Brooks, happened to have an opening for a recruit, so it all worked out like it was meant to.
“Jaxon was the definition of a starving artist when I met him. He had money and all that, but you wouldn’t have ever known it. You could either find him at the bar or in front of an easel. He was definitely less talkative and even more of a grump than he is now.” She smiles fondly at the memory.
I can already tell Jaxon has come a long way from the guy she’s describing.
“But he’s always been a good guy.” Her tone becomes softer. “Wants nothing more than to live and breathe his art, even if he doesn’t paint as much. Teaching others seems to make him happy.” She drops her chin onto her fists, which are resting on the counter. “We got to talking one day, and I told him about my dream café that would be a place customers wanted to stay awhile. With art like his on the walls. Homey. Warm. With this being a hot spot for hikers, I wanted to give them a home away from home.
“I didn’t realize he’d really been listening until he brought me here one day. Both suites were for rent, and that’s when we came up with this crazy plan to have him teach art next door. The Canvas and Wine idea just sort of came naturally after that. It was all so perfect. His dream and mine, with Danny working down the road.”
My heart feels full after hearing her story, but there’s also a twinge of sadness there. Passion can create anything. I had it once. That thing. That feeling that felt as easy as breathing. That vision. It was all within my grasp. That same passion lived in me before a nightmare cast a permanent shadow over my world.
I’m not sure if I can ever get it back.
I’m not sure if I want to.
“I’m opening the doors in five minutes.” Jaxon pops his head in to deliver the message, then leaves before I can check him out again. He’s wearing a red beanie tonight. It pairs well with his worn denim jeans and cream v-neck shirt, plaid removed. Not that he probably put any thought into it. Jaxon was always a “toss on whatever is clean” kind of guy.
Claire moves to the doorway between Creek Café and Creek Canvas, spreading her arms in a flourish. “Welcome to Canvas and Wine.”
I walk past her into the studio, and I’m frozen, a multitude of emotions coursing through me. Maybe I should have prepared myself for this better. My senses are on overload. My body feels light. I’m drifting in a haze as it all hits me at once.
Jaxon is a real artist. He did it, and I missed it all.
Claire places a serving tray in my hands and leads me around the studio, explaining the culture of Balsam Grove like there will be a test later. “In a small town like this, we have to think about our neighbors,” she says. “The studio brings the café business while the café brings the studio a service it couldn’t otherwise offer. When we close down for the night, customers usually flock to the bar down the street.” She grins, bursting with pride for her and Jaxon’s creation.
She nudges me and points to the front window, where a line has formed, starting at the front door and extending past where my eyes can see. “Three nights a week for two hours, we are the entertainment.”
My eyes scan the line of eager customers waiting to be let in the door, the end nowhere in sight. “Geez. They’re all out-of-towners? Coming to a painting class?”
“Paint by instruction,” Jaxon corrects as he breezes past me to get to the door, alpine and maple scenting the air around him. “And there will be a few locals tonight, too. Consider yourself warned.”
Claire throws me a sympathetic but amused pout while wrapping her arms around my elbow. “They’ll try to chat you up and ask all the questions because they have nothing better to do. Just keep busy, and be polite.” Then she winks. “Good luck.”
The room is filled with four long tables covered in black cloths, two dozen easel stands and canvases atop them, and white paper plates dotted with a variety of colors. Jaxon’s easel sits on a desk at the front of the room beside a canvas of what I’m assuming the finished piece should look like: a wine bottle filling a glass in one long stream, swooping around to form an incomplete heart.
Unlike the Hollow Falls bridge painting in the café, this one lacks detail and life, but it’s still beautiful. Jaxon couldn’t mess up a painting if he tried. I often joked he could build a masterpiece from a trash bin.
Loud chatter begins to fill the room, and I look to see that Jaxon has opened the door. A flood of women and a few men walk in and take their seats.
“It’s time,” Claire sing-songs beside me.
And time it is. We’re taking orders right
out of the gate and filling them before the start of the lesson. We work like a machine, seamlessly taking orders, ringing them up, and serving.
I’m in the back room filling up my tray when I hear Claire come in behind me, her peach-scented perfume alerting me to her arrival before the soft patter of her Converse.
I shut the fridge with my toe and place the two beers down.
“Hey.” My eyes narrow with concern as I glance over at Claire. Her face looks pale, and her hand falls to her stomach. “Are you okay?”
She nods, her eyes widening. I know she doesn’t want me to worry. “Oh, yeah. I swear I’ve had the best pregnancy, but this last trimester has really been getting to me with the dizzy spells and the heartburn. Not to mention my feet manage to swell to the size of Texas if I’m standing for too long.” She laughs, though I can tell she’s in pain. “And whoever told me women eat more when they’re pregnant was on crack. I can’t seem to keep anything down anymore.” She sighs and slips off her apron. “Do you think you can cover? I could use some rest.”
“Of course. Go home. I’ll be fine.”
I keep the snacks and drinks flowing after she leaves, which means more time in the studio and unavoidable stares from the locals when I cross their line of sight. I’m sure this is just the beginning of it. By tomorrow, the entire town will know I’m here, and I’ll be grateful for a harsh glare or two. I expected some tension because of my father, but they seem to be forgetting that I was a victim too.
With around thirty-six students, mostly girls around my age, the night has turned into something resembling a party. Pop music streams from the surround sound speakers, and the room is filled with tipsy chatter. I don’t mind it, except for the fact that Jaxon seems to spend more time warding off his fan club than instructing.
I shouldn’t be noticing things like that, I know, but ninety minutes into the two-hour painting class, my focus has started to drift to him. It doesn’t help that Claire calls me to tell me she always brings him a glass of wine toward the end of the night. “Sounds rowdy in there. Jax will need a pick-me-up by now.” She laughs on the other end of the line.
“Thanks for the heads up. Now go rest.”
“Definitely. I’m already in bed. I’ll see you tomorrow, Aurora. Thanks, again. Oh, and great job today.”
I thank her and smile as we hang up the phone.
With Jaxon’s wine in my hand, I stall in the back of the class, not wanting to disrupt his lesson as he works his brush against the canvas. I never thought I’d see this sight again. I’d almost forgotten the effect his quick and effortless movements have over me. My eyes move from the canvas to his forearm to his back muscles rippling through his white shirt. The man is still as sexy as his art. Maybe even sexier now.
I take a deep breath before continuing forward. Jaxon turns at the same time I swipe the lonely beverage from my tray and hand it to him.
“Claire thought you could use this.”
He accepts it, his eyes never leaving mine. “That was nice of her.”
There’s something incredibly sexy about watching Jaxon drink wine. The way he holds the stem delicately between his pointer finger and thumb. The way he moves the glass so it’s circling the air, the dark red liquid swirling as he takes in the scent with a pull of his nose. The way his lips part for the glass, tipping it into his mouth. The way he swallows.
Jesus. Even Jaxon’s neck has changed—thickened—and it warms the space between my thighs.
“All right. That’s time,” he announces to the class, setting his wine glass on the table beside him and thanking me for the drink with a nod. He stands at the front of the room to give the next instruction.
Giggles and moans fill the room as paint brushes are set down. Surprisingly, even when drunk, they all listen to Jaxon.
“What’s next, teach?”
“Patience, Julie. I need to check out your masterpieces first.” More giggling ensues.
My back is against the wall as I watch Jaxon circle the room to give his feedback. He’s less broody when he’s teaching art, I notice. Approachable, even. He smiles and laughs at the appropriate times, and he even manages to crack a few jokes. None of this is out of character for the Jaxon I fell in love with. But compared to Claire’s version of him when she first met him, this version makes me happy.
My muscles lock up when a warm body comes to stand beside mine. When his arm brushes against my shoulder, I know I could combust right here. I take a moment to tamper down my nerves, taking deep, slow breaths as we stare at his painting.
A beat of silence passes before he speaks. “So.” He shoves his hands in his jeans pockets. “What do you think?”
My eyes scan the painting again, fighting for something brilliant to say. I’m at a loss. “It’s…good. Great use of colors.”
He chuckles. “Ah, that’s right. You never could lie well. You should remember, an artist’s ego needs stroking.”
“Not all artists.” Peering up at him from the side, my lips tilt in his direction. “Besides, I think you have plenty of women here more than willing to stroke whatever you ask of them.”
Heat rushes up my neck as I realize how that just sounded. But my words are all it takes for the energy between us to change from awkward to far too intense.
His eyes narrow and darken before he gives me a teasing glare and nudges my side. “Tell me the truth. What do you think?”
He always manages to make me feel exposed. “I’m no art critic…”
His brows twist as he glances at me again. “Okay. But you have an opinion. I’d like to hear it. Genuinely.”
My entire body sighs as I examine the painting once more. “Great colors, great use of lighting.” I shrug. “I don’t know. It just doesn’t wow me like the paintings in the café. Like the Hollow Falls piece, for example.” I gesture to the wine painting in front of us. “This one is imaginative, I guess, with the way the wine pours in. It’s cute. Romantic even. But it’s not realistic.”
He examines his own work again. “If I taught this class how to paint Hollow Falls, we’d need a lot more wine.”
I fail to hold back my smile. “Fair enough.” I give him a sideways glance, biting back my amusement. I love that I can make him squirm, but maybe I shouldn’t have been so honest. Art is a sensitive subject for both of us.
“Besides,” he adds on a breath. “Some art can never be replicated.” His words skim over me like the tip of a brush, slowly, fluttering on its finish. “Any imitation would be a lie.”
I try to ignore the hum of his words reverberating through my body and fixate on his painting once more. “You’re good, okay? You know you’re a great artist, Jaxon. This painting is no exception.”
This time, he laughs on a breath. “Don’t patronize me, Aurora.” His eyes cut to mine as his chest builds with air. “You’ve always been honest with me. I’d hate for you to stop now. This is shit and you know it. But this class could never pick up a paint brush the way you did.” My heart beats faster with his words. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Not before, not after. Tell me you’re still painting.” The desperation in his voice sucks the air entirely from my lungs.
Balsam Grove has always been my open sea. Overwhelming, deep with history and uncharted knowledge, and infested with mysterious creatures from my past. After six years of avoidance, I came in on a life preserver. So why do I feel as if Jaxon is a wave pushing me into a raging storm?
Just then, a student calls for his attention, and I take the opportunity to rush around the room for last call. I’m at the register when the phone rings, and I smile when I see Claire’s name on the caller ID.
“How’s it going?” For a sick pregnant lady who can’t eat, Claire seems to have a hard time speaking around whatever is in her mouth. She sounds chipper.
“Just closing out the last of the orders. Easy peasy.”
She wants to know the sales numbers, so I run them off to her.
; “Wow. Great job tonight, doll. That might be a record number of orders in a single night.”
“Really?” I’m genuinely surprised. I didn’t do anything special. “It was fun.” And it’s true. I’m actually surprised by how fun tonight was. I didn’t think about my panic attacks, or the reasons why I’m here, or that I don’t belong. And it wasn’t because I was distracted. It was because I was surrounded by so much of what I used to love. The art. Jaxon. Okay, so maybe that’s only two things. But it’s progress.
“I’m so glad you loved it. I was thinking. It’s going to be tough for me to work most of those with the amount of standing. I’ll happily give up the awesome tips to veg out on chocolate-drizzled potato chips and binge on Netflix. Danny’s been grumbling that I work too much, anyway, and with his schedule we barely see each other as it is.”
My face twists. “Did you just say chocolate drizzled potato chips?”
Claire rolls her eyes. “I can feel your judgment, Aurora. Judgment is not allowed.”
Stifling a laugh, I slam the register closed. “So, you want me to take the Canvas and Wine shifts?”
“I mean, if you want the extra hours and tips, they’re yours.”
“By myself?”
“You can totally do it.” She doesn’t give me time to respond. “Anyway, just think about it. I posted the rest of the week’s schedule on the cork board in the break room. If you have any conflicts, just let me know.”
“Sounds good.” I eye the clock on the wall, seeing that class is just about over.
“I need to get going. Go ahead and lock up the café first, then you can help Jaxon clean up. I can close out the till in the morning. Just leave through the studio when you guys are done.”
We hang up, and I head back into the studio as everyone starts to shuffle out the door. Jaxon holds it open, distracted by a burgundy-haired girl in the back row. Pouty lips, flirtatious eyes, drop dead gorgeous body. She flips her hair and gives him a wide smile as she closes in. Too close. The moment her palm rests intimately on his chest, my own chest tightens. I can’t watch.