2. Flint
Two
Flint
M arigold high-tails away from me across the bar, her golden ponytail swishing behind her. She’s in a sage green dress tonight, the fabric dancing around her thighs, while leather boots cling to her calves.
My nostrils flare as I watch her leave, sucking in a sharp breath. Why is it always so hard to watch that young woman walk away from me? Why does it feel so wrong?
She’s too young for you, asshole , a voice mutters in my head. It’s my voice, because I’ve been telling myself the same thing for months. It’s been one hell of a long, frustrating summer.
But Marigold is too young, too sweet, too shy, too everything for a cranky old bastard like me to be panting after her. Better to not go there, to not let my thoughts stray in that direction, because if I get caught up in thoughts of Marigold flushed and begging on her knees, blue eyes wide, her ponytail wrapped around my fist—
Shit.
Now I’m sporting wood in my own damn bar.
The locals lounge in their regular booths, surrounded by half-empty glasses, their cheeks flushed red. One fella’s dealing out cards while another holds court, telling some dramatic story about being stalked along the trails by a mountain lion.
I’ve heard that story before. We all have.
Not much happens in Starlight Ridge, and sometimes folks need to recycle their tall tales. No one cares once the drinks are flowing, and usually that gets under my skin, makes me all cranky and irritated, wondering why it’s so wrong for people to just fall quiet for a change—but tonight that same old story is a comfort.
Teeth gritted, I strain to hear every word, focusing every ounce of my attention on the dramatic tale of the cougar on the trail, until finally—thank fuck—the pressure eases in my jeans and I can step out from behind the bar again without causing a scene.
One last swirl of the cloth, then I place this over-polished glass down on its shelf with a thud. Whatever prank Jana’s playing, she’ll have to try again another time. Marigold’s gone, and there’s no one lining up for drinks. Time to shut myself up in my office and kick myself until closing.
Warm, muggy air sticks my shirt to my back, and I refresh the paper straws in their jar before moving to leave. But a flash of white catches my eye, and my body goes still.
…Huh. Look at that.
It’s Marigold’s sketchbook. The sketchbook. The one she’s been scribbling in for months now, always turning the page when I get close enough to look.
How long has she been in the bathroom now? One minute? Maybe two? It’s hard to judge time passing by when every second with her gone feels like an eternity.
Laughter bursts from a nearby booth, and music hums from the speakers on the wall, and still I’m frozen in place, watching Marigold’s sketchbook from the corner of my eye. Like it’s a wild animal that could spook if I stare at it head-on.
Okay, screw it.
The sketchbook is splayed open, the pencil dropped to one side—so this particular sketch isn’t private, at least. It wouldn’t cross any lines to take a peek. Reaching out, I hesitate for a single breath before spinning the sketchbook to face me.
The pages rustle, their edges worn and stained with graphite. This is a well-used book. It’s seen some good action over the last few months, because Marigold is no poser—she’s not coming here and pretending to sketch, acting all picturesque—she’s a real artist, getting her hands dirty and working the pages hard.
Where did she learn to draw?
What’s her favorite subject?
Does she ever paint or sew or do other arty things too? Christ, I’ve got so many questions about this young woman, I’ll never get enough answers to be sated.
This particular drawing is one I’ve seen before. Two of the bar regulars, Hank and Jimmy, shelter together by the open doorway, cupping their hands around a smoke and trying to protect the tiny flame from the wind. Their shirts flap against their stocky bodies, and their heads are bowed together in concentration. In the background, mountains loom into the sky.
It’s a damn good sketch. I remember thinking that the first time I saw it, and Marigold’s worked on it more since then. She’s been shading and stylizing, making the mountains seem harsher and the wind extra fierce, and now the sight of this sketch makes my chest tug.
Yeah. Yeah.
Those are our mountains. This is our town. This is what it’s like, living on the Starlight Ridge frontier. Marigold nailed it.
In a daze, I flip the page.
And turn to stone.
My own eyes glower back at me, my gaze harsh and unwavering from the page. It’s a portrait from the shoulders up, shelves of bottles blurring behind me in the background, and it’s drawn in such painstaking detail that a loud buzzing sound fills my brain.
Because… my stubble. My mouth. That tiny scar notched in my earlobe, from a stray fishing hook when I was a boy. The tired lines at the corners of my eyes. It’s all there, every last detail of me—like looking in a mirror, except more flattering somehow.
When did Marigold look at me so closely? When did she stare long enough to draw this? And did she like what she saw?
Guilt twists my gut, but I’m in too deep to stop now. Screw my eternal soul; screw the last shreds of my restraint. Tossing a glance at the bathroom door, I flip back to the very first page of the sketchbook and start working my way through.
There’s the bar from outside, set against the forest and mountains.
Then Jana and Tess, laughing together in their matching black polo shirts.
And … me . I’m lifting a crate of beer bottles, muscles taut beneath my t-shirt, scowling to myself about something or other. Mouth dry, I linger for a beat on this first drawing of me—wishing that for once in my life I had my phone to hand, so I could snap a quick photo of this.
Another glance at the bathroom door. How many minutes have passed? Two? Three?
Moving quicker, I flip through more pages. There’s a group of hikers bent over a table together, maps of the mountains spread across the wood. More portraits of our regulars, their weather-beaten faces creased into grins. Jana’s fiance Stig as he leans across the bar, flirting with his girl.
Then me again. Squinting into the sun this time, one arm raised to shade my eyes, drawn in finer detail than any other sketch so far.
Next is a landscape drawing of Starlight Ridge town, nestled down in the valley, followed by an older woman licking an ice cream in our backyard, a trickle of cream sliding down her wrist.
Me again, elbows propped on the bar.
Jana and Tess.
Tess alone, flicking a dish towel at her brother, Rowan.
Me, my hair rumpled from a long day I’ve forgotten now.
The locals.
A hiker.
Me.
Me.
Me.
Flipping faster, heart pounding, I scan page after page of my own scowling face, the sketches coming closer together. There are still other subjects scattered in between, but they’re rarer and far less detailed as the sketchbook goes on.
And it’s clear: Marigold knows my face better than I do. Every detail of me, she’s sketched out and brought to life. And not just my face—in some of these drawings, she’s included my body too. The swell of my shoulders beneath my shirt, the press of my thighs against my jeans. The way my belt sits across my hips. All of it.
Fuck.
I slam the sketchbook closed, fingers splayed, chest heaving like I’ve just run ten miles—then spin the book back to face Marigold’s stool right as the bathroom door swings open.
I’d be busted right now, except she’s too busy staring at the floor to notice my deer-in-headlights act, picking her way around tables and booths on a roundabout route back to the bar. That green dress swishes around her legs, and her cheeks are flushed when she finally looks up at me. I’m over by the dishwasher, unloading glasses like nothing’s happened at all.
“S-sorry,” my artist whispers, sliding back onto her stool. She glances down at her sketchbook, then frowns.
Shit.
Did she leave it open or closed? After everything, after the non-stop shocks of the last few minutes, the way my world turned upside down and shook me like a snow globe… I can’t remember. It was closed, right?
Lord, tell me it was closed.
Marigold jerks her head up to look at me, her blue eyes wide with fear. Guilt clogging my throat, I keep unloading the dishwasher like I’ve never seen a sketch in my whole damn life. Never seen those drawings of me, with the shape of my body shaded in such fine detail. Nope, never.
“Um,” Marigold says. “Did someone…?”
Feeling like the world’s biggest jerk, I glance over and raise an eyebrow. “Did someone what?” Clink, clink , go the glasses in my hands, and if I had an ounce of decency I’d beat myself over the head with one of ‘em.
“Nothing,” she mumbles, flipping her sketchbook open to that same page with the two regulars sharing a smoke. Her pencil turns over and over in her fingers, and her teeth dig into her plump bottom lip; nibbling in a way that makes me want to reach over and press her lip free with my thumb, then slide knuckle deep and let her suck on my digit. Let her suck all those worries away.
My cock aches something fierce at the thought, but I do my best to ignore it. Should never have seen those sketches of me. Should never have pried.
And so I lean further over the dishwasher, trying to lose myself in the rhythm of the work, and forget what I learned tonight: my fixation with Marigold goes both ways.