by Lydia Reeves
She ignored my question. “I heard you’re having someone paint the store.”
My mouth dropped open. How could she possibly know that? Ellen had only started that morning. The curse of living in a small town. “Yep. I’m having a mural done on the brick wall, you know, the big one in the back?”
A pause. I gritted my teeth. Wait for it…
“I don’t know why you didn’t ask Jeremy.” There it was. My mother was nothing if not predictable. “He is an artist, you know,” she added. As if I could forget.
“I think he’s probably a little out of my price range, Mom.”
She scoffed. “Oh, come now, he’s family. He wouldn’t have charged you.” I bit my lip to keep from laughing out loud at that. “Anyway,” she went on, “I just thought it might be nice, you know, having his artwork on your wall. It would really be a family store then. Besides, it would be good publicity, you know.”
She was right; it probably would increase sales and exposure to have a huge Jeremy Whitaker mural on the wall of my store. But the store was mine. The one thing I’d done all by myself, for myself, and I intended to keep it that way.
“Sorry, Mom. I didn’t plan it; I only met her a couple of days ago.”
“Who’s her?” She sounded suspicious. Better shut that down. “The artist.” I said. “She came into the store.” Technically correct.
My mom sighed. “Well. I hope you’ve at least put out Jeremy’s new book. He’s really counting on you for promotion.” I nearly laughed at that, too. Jeremy’s big-name publisher was more than capable of promoting him without the help of a tiny bookstore in Nowhere, Indiana, even if it was the writer’s hometown.
“Yes, Mom. I put the book on display. I’ve already sold a few.”
I could almost see her satisfied nod through the phone.
“Good. Even if you don’t share your brother’s artistic talents, it’s good to see you supporting—”
“Did you need anything else, Mom?”
“Oh, so I can’t call just to check in with my son?”
I waited, and finally she sighed.
“In case you forgot, Dylan’s birthday is coming up, and we’re throwing a party at the house. I hope you can come. It’s a week from Saturday.”
Dylan. Of my brother’s many accomplishments, soon-to-be six-year-old Dylan was the only one I really cared about. It was Dylan who brought my brother back to town after years of gallivanting around the world, determined to raise his son in his hometown. And though his marriage hadn’t lasted out the year, Jeremy had stayed—so far—and his amazing kid had stayed as well. Providing my parents with their only grandchild had only served to raise my brother even higher in their eyes, but I couldn’t fault them for that one. Dylan was pretty great.
“Of course I’ll be there. Just let me know what time.”
“It’s at four. Bring a picture of the mural. Even if it’s not as good as what Jeremy might do, we’d still like to see it.” Like it would kill them to drive twenty minutes and come see it themselves. I ignored the barb and said my goodbyes, stepping to the office door as I hung up the phone.
Ellen had finished the rough shape of the whale and had climbed up onto the scaffolding, where she was busy blocking in the sweeping vista of Hogwarts Castle. By the looks of it so far, the mural was going to be almost as beautiful as the woman painting it.
Chapter 7
ELLEN
I’d painted a handful of murals before, but never one of this size or scope. I’d been worried that I might have agreed to something over my head, not to mention the added pressure because I really cared about Sam’s reaction to it, but in the end I was enjoying myself more than I could have imagined. It was nerve-wracking at first, especially as a few people gathered around to watch—I’d never had an audience watch me work before—but their enthusiasm was palpable, and it just fueled my own excitement.
I hadn’t thought he would actually go for the idea. But when he had, I’d been so excited I threw myself into planning, brainstorming book-themed ideas with him, mapping out the layout, making supply lists. We’d both been so tired at the end of it all that we’d fallen into bed—separately—without a repeat of the kiss in the hotel room. Part of me had been disappointed—the attraction I felt to this man was so strong it was like a relentless itch under my skin—but another part of me was slightly relieved. If nothing got started between us, it would be so much easier when I left. No disappointment, no feelings, no attachment. Besides, I was afraid the time to sleep with Sam just for the enjoyment of it and walk away with no strings attached was rapidly passing. I liked him too much. We would have to keep this professional.
So, I didn’t dwell on Sam, and focused instead on the mural.
I lost myself in the work, translating the rough sketch I’d developed the night before into a well-balanced design on a massive scale. Huck and Jim floated on their raft down the Mississippi; Winnie the Pooh danced with Christopher Robin and his friends in the foreground while a forest of truffula trees filled the horizon. Alice chased the white rabbit through the tea party; Hamlet clutched Yorick’s skull; Dorothy and the Scarecrow skipped down the yellow-brick road; the fiery peak of Mount Doom rose out of the landscape. I hid Easter eggs throughout, imagining some kind of literary treasure hunt—a scarlet letter “A” carved into a tree, Poe’s raven perched on a limb, the tiny figure of Peter Pan flying through the night sky.
I paused only to scarf down some food from the cafe, and gave a distracted nod when Sam told me the store closed in half an hour, and another vague wave of acknowledgement when he told me he was heading upstairs an hour after that.
When I finally surfaced from my creative fog, I had no idea what time it was, and while Sam had left the lights on for me, the sky outside the windows was pitch black. My back popped and groaned as I stretched it out, and I made my way down the scaffolding to the floor, feeling like I was climbing up out of the bottom of a well. It had been a while since I’d been this lost in a project.
Back on solid ground again, I walked clear across to the other side of the store and turned to take in my work. It was disheartening to see just how little I appeared to have accomplished, though I knew I’d gotten much more done than it seemed. It was a huge space, and this was a big project, and though they may not look impressive, the rough shapes and guidelines I’d established today would go a long way toward making the rest of the work go smoothly.
Satisfied, I moved my supplies out of the way as best as I could and shut the lights off, before making my way up to Sam’s apartment. I’d half expected him to be asleep when I got there, but instead I heard the shower running in the bathroom. In the kitchen I found that Sam, ever the thoughtful host, had left me a covered plate containing an enormous sandwich and a bowl of still-warm vegetable soup next to a note with my name written on it in a bold scrawl.
I inhaled the sandwich like a starving wolf and was just about to demolish the soup when I heard the tap in the bathroom shut off. A moment later he appeared in the kitchen doorway and I froze, spoon lifted halfway to my mouth.
Any thoughts I’d had about keeping things professional evaporated as if they’d never existed.
Sam fully dressed was a sight to behold. Sam wearing nothing but a towel slung low on his hips, water droplets still clinging to the ends of his hair, muscles gleaming in the light from the hallway…well. That was something else entirely. The soup tipped out of my spoon and ran back into the bowl.
“I thought I heard you come in,” he said. I couldn’t seem to form the words to respond, and a moment later the corner of his mouth pulled up. A little more. Then the other side, and then the smile gave way to a very poorly suppressed bout of laughter.
Suddenly I realized how I must look. I had tied my hair up hastily at some point and rammed a paintbrush through it to hold it in place out of my way. I couldn’t seem to remember if the brush had had paint on it. I was wearing my work clothes, which were more holes than fabric, and were held together
largely with dried paint at this point. My t-shirt sported a drawing of a cartoon pencil with the phrase, “2B or not 2B” emblazoned across my chest—fitting, I’d thought, for this project—and both it, and my skin, were spattered with fresh stains in every color of the rainbow. I’d inhaled my sandwich so fast I likely was wearing half of it on my face, and I was still holding up that damn spoon.
I let the spoon clatter down into the bowl. Sam was laughing so hard he was clutching the counter to hold himself upright, so I did the only self-respecting thing I could think of. I balled up my napkin and threw it at him. It bounced harmlessly off his shoulder—that shoulder—and without missing a beat, he grabbed it from the floor and threw it back. It hit me in the forehead and when it hit the floor again, it was smeared with green paint. Sam just laughed harder.
So, I looked down, jammed my hand into a blob of scarlet paint on my shirt, crossed the room to him, and ran my hand in one smooth motion down the length of his torso, smearing a thick trail of red down his chest. His skin was hot and still damp from the shower, and the laughter died on his lips.
Our eyes met and held. Scarcely daring to breathe, I took another blob of paint—blue this time—and smeared it slowly across the first, savoring the feel of his skin under my fingertips. I trailed it down, my hand moving of its own volition, until my fingers hovered just above the edge of his towel. His lips parted on an indrawn breath and my eyes dropped to his mouth, and less than a heartbeat later he had grabbed my shoulders and pulled me to him. Our lips crashed together, and my senses were overwhelmed with the feel of his lips, his tongue sliding against mine, the taste of him, the feel of his shoulders, smooth and damp under my clutching hands.
His hand came up behind me and pulled the paintbrush from my hair. His fingertips came away green and my hair tumbled around my shoulders and down my back. He buried his fingers in the strands and gave a light tug, pulling my head back so his mouth could move to my jaw, trailing a line of kisses there, and I moaned at the sensation, the sound catching deep in my throat.
He stepped closer, until we were touching all along our fronts, and then without warning he bent and lifted me up, sitting me on the edge of the counter. His hands came to my thighs, and I parted my legs, wrapping them around him and pulling him closer to me. His answering groan lit my body on fire.
When his hands came to the hem of my shirt, dipping underneath so his fingers could trail a line of goosebumps along the skin at my waist, I nearly melted in relief. He wasn’t going to stop. Whatever had spooked him that first night wouldn’t stand in our way now.
Because I wanted this. I didn’t want another night lying awake in bed knowing he was just steps away down the hall.
He broke the kiss long enough to pull back and meet my eyes. His were dark and steady, but there was no mistaking the question there.
“Yes,” I breathed, and then he tugged my shirt up and over my head, smearing paint across my skin in the process. His mouth was back on mine, hungry and hot, as my bra joined my shirt on the floor, and then his hands slid up my sides to skim over my breasts. My nipples hardened into sensitive peaks against the rough skin of his hands, and he dipped his head, trailing wet kisses down the column of my throat before capturing a nipple in his mouth. When he swirled his tongue around the tip, a bolt of heat rushed straight through me, and I clutched at his back, feeling the hard muscles shift beneath my hands.
I tried not to dig my fingernails into his skin, but I didn’t have complete control over my body, and my head tipped back as he switched to the other breast, kissing and sucking until I squirmed against him, shifting, trying to gain friction where I wanted it most.
“Ellen.”
His voice was a low growl against my breast, reverberating through me, and I arched forward into him. The movement pulled his towel loose and it fell in a heap to the floor. He pulled back, breathing hard, staring at me with an intensity that made me feel like my skin might catch fire.
I glanced down, and only got the barest glimpse of hard muscle, smooth skin, bold smears of paint all over his arms and torso where he’d been pressed against me, before he hoisted me up into his arms with one smooth motion.
I let out a surprised squeak and wrapped my arms and legs around him tight, and then his mouth was on mine again as he carried me down the short hallway and into his bedroom.
The comforter on his bed was soft, and that was all I had time to notice before his hands were at the waist of my jeans, and then they were sliding down my legs along with my underwear. A moment later the warm weight of him was on top of me, and then inside me, in one, long, slow, delicious movement, and then we were moving together, my hands touching every inch of skin I could reach, tangling in his hair and sliding down his back, paint staining the bedclothes, and when at last the pleasure was too much and I couldn’t hold back a second longer, I could feel his dark eyes on me, watching as I let go, and he closed his eyes and followed a second later, my name on his lips.
Chapter 8
SAM
I hadn’t intended to have sex with her. Not the first time, or the second, when I rolled over in the night, only half-awake and confused at the unfamiliar weight in my bed, only to find soft skin and warm lips curved in a sleepy smile.
The third time, when my alarm went off and I returned from the bathroom to find her in my bed, hair matted and stiff with dried paint, covers pulled up under her chin and eyes wide with what looked suspiciously like panic in the cold light of day—well, that time I meant it. I wasn’t even sure my body would cooperate again after what I’d put it through the night before, so I erased the look in her eyes with my mouth between her legs, and the sounds she made suggested it was the right choice. But then she slid down my body—all smooth skin and soft hair—and returned the favor, and my body cooperated just fine after all. And by the time we’d both showered and dressed and made our way downstairs to the shop, there was no trace of panic left in her eyes.
Geoff didn’t say a word when we entered the store together, but he narrowed his eyes at me. I ignored him and his raised eyebrow as he brought a chocolate scone into my office and left it on my desk, but when he dropped another scone off with Ellen where she was setting up her paint in the corner, whatever he said to her made her blush so brilliantly I could see it across the store. He shot a smirk at me and didn’t seem at all bothered by the glare I sent back.
The day dragged on, and I tried to ignore her, I really did. I tried to get my work done and help my customers and act normal, like there wasn’t a magnet on the other side of the store pulling my attention away from my job every five seconds. But it was really hard to pretend when said magnet was perched on a rickety metal platform halfway up the wall, pulling the eyes of not just myself but every single person in the place. Which was a lot of people, come to think of it.
There were easily twice the number of people I usually saw in the store on a weekday afternoon, with more coming and going regularly. Most people were standing around not even pretending to do anything other than watch Ellen work. I wasn’t sure if I should be offended or grateful, but I had to admit, sales were up so far that day, so I settled on grateful.
It was around four o’clock in the afternoon, and I was half reorganizing a table full of mystery books and half watching the Cheshire cat’s smile take shape in the leaves of a tree when I heard a familiar voice by my side.
“So, that’s Fairfield’s new artistic protégé, hm? Think she’ll replace your brother as the town’s creative darling?”
I snorted and turned to look at Jeanne.
“Hardly. I doubt anything could replace Fairfield’s one big claim to fame. Besides, she’s not staying, just passing through. She’s doing the mural to pass the time while she waits for her car to get fixed.”
“Not staying, huh?” My ex-sister-in-law tilted her head as she watched Ellen work. “That’s too bad. Everyone seems pretty enamored with her.”
I glanced back to the scaffolding and realized Jeanne was rig
ht. While much of the crowd seemed content just watching Ellen work, I realized I’d seen more and more people coming up to talk with her, asking her questions about herself and her work. In a quiet little town like ours, any hint of excitement or change was pounced upon immediately.
“What about you?”
“Hmm?” I said distractedly.
“Are you enamored with her as well?”
I looked sharply back to Jeanne, then resumed stacking books on the mystery table. “What are you talking about?”
“Just wondering,” she said idly. “Only, most people in here are watching her paint, but you seem mostly to be watching her.”
I glowered at her and she laughed. “Oh, calm down. Come on, Sam, come have a cup of coffee with me so I can pretend I stopped by to see you instead of spy on your artist.”
Giving in, I left the mystery table in disarray and followed her over to the cafe, waiting while she perused the small case with its array of baked goods.
Jeanne’s marriage to my brother had only lasted for eleven months—a whirlwind wedding after she found out she was pregnant, then just enough time to realize they actually had nothing in common, before hastily filing for divorce. She was a dentist, and, at first glance, exactly the kind of girl Jeremy usually went for—gorgeous, funny, and sweet. But then it turned out she was also a fair bit smarter than his usual conquests, which meant that she had her own thoughts and opinions, including ones that didn’t entirely mesh with his. The marriage ended amicably enough though, and when Jeremy decided he wanted to move back home to raise Dylan in Fairfield, Jeanne agreed without protest.
Despite her questionable taste in men, I had to admit Jeanne was a wonderful person—sharp, with a quick wit, and a good friend to have. What’s more, she was my one ally in the family. Since my mother would never forgive her for her clear mistake in divorcing her flawless son, it was rather refreshing to not be the only one who constantly fell short. Still, I always felt like Jeanne seemed to handle it better than I, not having grown up with it.