Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Lee
I saw her before she reached the table.
She stood out in a sea of beautiful women because she looked composed in a way that felt practiced. Not stiff so much as not completely… genuine.
She slowed when she noticed me.
Most people did it without realizing. A half-step hesitation. It wasn’t arrogance that recognized it when I saw it. It was awareness. I’d learned to pick up on it years ago, the moment when someone clocked authority and instinctively adjusted themselves around it.
Her eyes flicked over me once, quick and thorough, before she smoothed her expression into a polite smile and approached.
Interesting.
When she gave me her name, I felt it land.
Hope.
I didn’t comment on it lightly. Names mattered. And that one carried weight, whether she realized it or not.
When I handed her the clipboard and watched her realize what she’d signed up for, I kept my face neutral. People told themselves all sorts of stories at moments like that. Panic. Embarrassment. Denial. I’d learned that giving them space to feel it without judgment mattered more than reassurance.
She insisted she wasn’t a Little.
That, too, was familiar. Hope certainly wasn’t the first person I’d met in my life who was in denial about who they were.
When she agreed to stay, I knew it wasn’t because I pushed. No matter how it looked, I felt it in my bones that this was something she wanted to try. No, something she needed to experience.
Thankfully, Levi was close by, and I could trust him to handle the sign-in table.
His partner, Roland, was working inside the art studio with Gavin, and their Little girl, Sydney, would probably be in her regular classes, as Derek had decreed that the first few days would be for attendees only.
This allowed single Ranch residents or people who had come in from outside the Ranch an opportunity to look for a connection.
The art room was already alive with laughter and joy when we stepped in.
Long tables with paper laid out neatly, and paint jars arranged by color drew my attention almost immediately.
Gavin stood near the front, sleeves already streaked with color, laughing with a small group while Roland worked with another group in the far corner.
The atmosphere was intentionally unstructured.
Nothing like a bit of controlled chaos to bring more fun to the world.
Hope paused just inside the doorway.
She didn’t freeze, exactly. She seemed to be assessing the situation instead. I watched as she took in the Littles already seated, some chatting, some absorbed in their supplies and activity.
I stepped slightly to the side instead of behind her.
“This way,” I said quietly, indicating an open table near a large window.
Two Littles sat there already, neither directly connected with the other. A red-haired girl was tapping her brush nervously against the table. The other Little sat twisting a bracelet around her wrist.
Hope took the seat I pulled out for her, murmuring a soft thanks that sounded automatic.
I sat beside her rather than across. Near enough to make my intention clear, but not close enough to crowd her and make her feel uncomfortable.
I was hopelessly attracted to the woman, but I didn’t want to scare her off before we could get anywhere.
Not to mention this session was for Littles after all, and not really meant for her to have to interact with a Caregiver.
Introductions were brief. Names exchanged. Small smiles. The kind of cautious friendliness that came from strangers who were all out of their element.
Gavin explained the project loosely. His voice carried through the room, and I could see how even the most inattentive Little paid closer attention to him when he spoke.
It had a bit to do with his presence, but I think it was mostly because he was famous.
Not just for his art, but for the amazing coloring books he created for Littles.
And then it was time to start.
Hope stared at the blank paper in front of her as if it had personally offended her.
I hid a smile as I watched her expression morph from affront to determination.
She picked up her brush, holding it as if she would use it to battle foes rather than create art. Then she leaned in too close, brows knitting as she focused.
“Breathe,” I murmured to her, barely audible. “It’s not a test to fail.”
She shot me a look that was half-annoyed, half-relieved.
“I know,” she said. “I just don’t want to mess it up.”
“There’s nothing to mess up, sweetheart,” I replied. “It’s only paint. You can do whatever you want, and however it turns out, it will be as it was meant to be.”
That seemed to relax her enough for her to let go.
Gavin’s instructions had been sparse but clear.
Paint what you were feeling.
And it seemed like Hope was feeling colorful. Her page quickly filled with bold splashes of color in careful, sweeping strokes.
That was when it happened.
The blue paint bled into the yellow.
“No,” she said under her breath, the word almost an accusation of sorts.
She tried to fix it. Dabbed at the edges, but it only made it worse. Her jaw tightened, and I watched as she took a deep breath. The air around her changed.
She wasn’t giving off anger, exactly. It was more frustration, edged with something else. Something less controlled. Hope’s foot bounced once beneath the table. Her fingers curled tight around the brush, and I had a fleeting thought that she might snap it in half before she spoke up.
“I’ve ruined it,” she muttered, her tone completely dejected and hitting me straight in the heart.
Oh, my poor baby.
I leaned closer, keeping my voice calm, my fingers itching to stroke down her back or give her a tickle to brighten her up.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I said. “Look at me.”
She didn’t at first, keeping her focus on the paint splotches in front of her, a frown marring her beautiful face.
“Hope.” The one word was stern yet filled with nothing but the quiet determination I felt to make her feel better.
That did it.
Her eyes lifted, bright and a little stormy. “It’s ruined,” she repeated, and there it was. The edge of a tantrum.
I didn’t correct her. Didn’t minimize it. “It’s different,” I said. “Not ruined.”
She shook her head, shoulders hunching. “I was being so careful, too.”
“I know,” I said. “And it still looks really pretty. Accidents happen sometimes; that doesn’t mean the end result won’t be as amazing.”
I reached for a clean brush and dipped it lightly into water.
“May I?” I asked.
She hesitated, her lower lip wobbled a bit, but then she nodded.
I softened the edges of the colors, blending them instead of fighting them.
“See?” I said quietly. “You can make something new and pretty with it.”
Her breathing slowed. Just a little.
She watched my hands like they were doing something important.
When I offered her the brush, her fingers brushed mine. This time, she didn’t pull away immediately. And my hand tingled where she touched me.
“Try again,” I said. “Don’t try to fix it. Just keep creating.”
She did.
Her next strokes were looser. Messier. The tension in her shoulders eased the longer she worked on her picture. Hope still watched the page like it might bite her from time to time, but, most importantly, she kept going.
By the end of the hour, there was paint on her fingers and a faint smudge on her cheek, but she didn’t seem to notice. And she looked absolutely mesmerizing. Her picture was undeniably imperfect, yet to me, absolutely perfect.
She glanced at it, then at me. The expression on her face was hard to read, but there seemed to be some joy in there at least.
“I didn’t hate that,” she admitted with a sheepish grin, her cheeks a very becoming pink.
I smiled as my heart warmed at the sight. This was the kind of girl I’d been waiting for. Other than a fleeting moment a while ago when I met another Daddy and his Little boy, I’d never had this instant connection with someone before.
“And how do you feel about your painting?” I finally found my voice and asked.
She paused to look at it with a discerning eye. “I like it,” she responded, shrugging.
“So... wanna try this thing again, or will you be joining the submissives after lunch?”
That’s when she did something that completely stole my heart.
She stuck her tongue out at me.