Our Secret Summer

Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

Raffo might have to remain in the lake for the rest of her stay, that was the only way she could possibly keep her end of the deal. Leaving Big Bear was the only honorable way out—then it could still easily be explained as a one-night madness kind of thing—but Raffo didn’t want to go back to LA just yet.

She could go somewhere else, but she couldn’t tell Connor as long as Dylan hadn’t told her son that she was also here—it would involve too many lies and half-truths. What a mess. And the simple fact was, also, that Raffo didn’t want to leave Dylan. At a minimum, before she left, she wanted to finish her portrait. She’d planned to paint something for Dylan—one that didn’t portray her and that Dylan could sell, if she wanted to. But that might have to wait.

Raffo swam farther from the house, then treaded water for a few minutes, looking at it all from a safe distance. How hard could it possibly be to not sleep with Connor’s mother? The question was both ridiculous and excruciating. Most of all, Raffo didn’t need this added aggravation to how lost she already felt after Mia. But that was just the thing. Dylan made her feel all sorts of things and sad and lost were not among them.

Earlier, trying to have a rational conversation with Dylan had been nearly impossible. Her tousled golden hair, those dreamy blue eyes, and the persistent memories of last night had clouded every thought. Here, by herself in the water, Raffo could think clearer. She asked herself what it was she really wanted? What was the one thing that mattered the most?

The answer surfaced effortlessly, because it never changed: Raffo wanted to paint. Her break-up with Mia had taken that from her, but two days with Dylan had reignited it with stunning force.

Connor would want her to prioritize her art—not at the expense of sleeping with his mother, but he didn’t need to know about that part. What terrified Raffo the most was the possibility that leaving Big Bear—leaving Dylan—might silence her creative voice again. In her personal hierarchy, art ranked above the risk of falling into bed with Dylan again. A crude rationalization perhaps, but it felt true enough for now. She could own that decision, at least.

Raffo swam back to the house, dried off, and did what she wanted to most of all—even more than sleep with Dylan again. She went to work.

There were days when Raffo’s artistic stars aligned and she managed to do in a few hours what, in lesser circumstances, could take days or even weeks. When she disappeared into a place inside herself that allowed her a hyperfocus that always produced swift and superior work. She wished all days were like that, but they decidedly were not. But today was one of those rare, special days.

She tried not to be flippant about it and attribute it to the orgasms that had freed up some blocked energy in her soul—or something woo-woo like that—but the thought persisted. Being with Dylan had been magnificent—unexpected yet inevitable—tender and, somehow, strangely loving. Dylan was a loving person and that effortlessly translated into the bedroom. With Mia, the last few years, it had always been whips and handcuffs, whereas with Dylan it had been straightforwardly sweet—Mia would most certainly sneer at it as too vanilla, but Mia had nothing to do with this—and surprisingly arousing.

Either way, whether it was because of the wonderful sex with its subject or not, Raffo finished the painting of Dylan at five forty-five that day. She didn’t just complete the work, she was over the moon with it. Because it was her first completed work post-break-up and also because it was fucking good—even if she did say so herself. The colors were spot on and if you didn’t know, you might not recognize her, but Raffo saw everything of Dylan in it. The honey of her hair—rendered in a golden hue Raffo had mixed, as if by magic, only about an hour ago. The kindness in her eyes—their depth expressed in the bluest of blues she could make. The warmth in her smile. The delicious swell of her breasts.

The first thing she did, in her euphoria, was call for Dylan. She didn’t go to the kitchen door and kindly ask if Dylan could spare a minute. Raffo yelled for her from her spot on the porch, probably loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

“Where’s the fire?” Dylan asked as she half-jogged over.

Raffo’s lips drew into an unstoppable smile. “Right here. It’s done. I finished it.”

Dylan’s eyebrows arched up. “No way? Already?”

“Hell, yes. Do you want to see?” Raffo had to stop herself from jumping up and down.

“Is my name Dylan French?” Dylan rubbed her palms together.

“Come.” Raffo stood behind Dylan and put her hands on her shoulders. She maneuvered Dylan around until she stood facing the canvas. “Ta-da.”

“Oh my god,” Dylan exclaimed. “Raffo. Fuck.” Did her voice just break a little? Raffo couldn’t see her face—and she also found it hard to remove her hands from Dylan’s shoulders. “It’s so beautiful. I’m—” Raffo did see how Dylan brought her hand to her mouth. “Speechless, but also… incredibly honored.” She paused. “That you would see me like this and translate that into this gorgeous work of art.”

She didn’t sound so speechless to Raffo, but every single word was music to her ears.

Dylan’s hand found Raffo’s on her shoulder, warm and trembling slightly. “I want to turn around and thank you, but I can’t look away from it.”

“It’s yours. You can look at it for the rest of your life.” Raffo squeezed Dylan’s shoulder. “And I should be the one thanking you. You made this possible for me. You have no idea what that means to me.” Everything, Raffo thought. Absolutely everything.

“I’m also a little afraid to turn around.” Dylan leaned backward a fraction, her behind pushing against Raffo’s thighs.

“We’re going to have to look at each other at some point.” Raffo’s voice had turned into a whisper.

Slowly, Dylan turned around. Their joined hands dropped, but remained clasped together.

“I’m going to say something that I shouldn’t. I know this, but I’m going to say it anyway.” Dylan’s eyes were a little dewy. “I think that last night, for me—” She put a hand on her clavicle. “I think it was more than sex.”

Raffo was not expecting that. What did that even mean? Where was the line? When was it just sex and when was it more?

“I know I shouldn’t have said that.” Dylan broke the short silence that followed. “But it’s how I feel.” Dylan pointed her thumb behind her. “And that? That’s pure genius, Raffo. You’re so fucking brilliant and I’m so lucky that you came here.”

Dylan was probably a little overwhelmed by seeing that painting of her. Raffo could understand that. It was a brand-new sensation for her.

“I would also very much like to kiss you right now,” Dylan said next.

What about the deal they’d shook on this morning? Not even a day had passed and Dylan wanted to kiss her again? And she had… feelings for Raffo?

“Dylan, um—” Raffo was the one who was actually speechless. It was all too much. Last night, followed by the rush of finishing the painting, and now this?

“I won’t, of course. I’m sorry.” Dylan took a step back. Their hands lost touch. “But I’m so impressed by you,” she whispered.

None of this was rational. That painting behind a stuttering Dylan least of all. Raffo glanced at it and all she could feel was pure joy—especially because the one and only critic this particular work of art would ever have, had responded by wanting to kiss her. It wasn’t as though Raffo didn’t want to kiss Dylan again—she wanted to do so much more than that—but this was not the deal they’d made.

“Look.” Raffo stepped closer again. She didn’t want to leave Dylan hanging like that. “Let’s take a breath. Let’s talk this through. I know it’s a lot.” Paintings were emotions that couldn’t be put into words. Maybe Dylan’s brain, and a few other body parts, had interpreted it as much more than it was. To Raffo, it was a return to what she loved the most. But it was impossible for Raffo to know which sensations it elicited in Dylan, its subject—except that she wanted to kiss her.

“I’m sorry.” Dylan swallowed hard. “I feel a bit silly but, Raffo, I also kind of don’t. I am totally floored by this work. By you. This means something to me. It’s hard to put into words what exactly, apart from what I just said, but… sure, let’s talk.”

“Please, don’t feel silly. There’s no need for that.” Raffo’s affection for Dylan was so big, she had to resist pulling her into her arms.

Then it hit her. Of course, last night had been more than sex. They weren’t strangers who’d had a one-night stand. They were two people going through a very intense time together. Two people who hit it off and were attracted to each other and had profound conversations as well as breezy, flirty ones.

Then Raffo stopped resisting because if this moment called for one thing, it was a hug between the subject of that finished painting—its muse—and its painter.

“Hey.” Raffo bridged the distance between them and opened her arms. “Come here.”

Without hesitation, Dylan walked into her embrace. She folded her arms tightly around Raffo’s waist and put her head on her shoulder.

“Thank you,” Raffo whispered. “For everything. I’m so impressed with you as well.”

“I want you,” Dylan whispered back. “It’s impossible not to want you after seeing that painting. I want you so much, Raffo.” Dylan’s breath was hot against the sensitive skin of Raffo’s neck. So much for talking things through. But what would they say, anyway? Dylan didn’t do anything, however. She just stood there, in Raffo’s arms—waiting. She was leaving the next step up to Raffo. Dylan’s skin was glued to hers. Her lips were a mere fraction removed from Raffo’s. Moreover, much like last night, Raffo’s body seemed to be taking over. Her arms had no inclination of letting go of Dylan and her feet did not want to walk away from this.

So she closed the tiny distance between their lips—easily and joyously. Of course she fucking did.

Dylan sighed into Raffo’s mouth, then clawed at her T-shirt. The time for waiting was, clearly, over.