4. Flint
Four
Flint
I n hindsight, I should’ve worn a better shirt. If I planned to make this gamble, if I meant to challenge Marigold to draw me tonight, I should’ve spruced myself up a bit first.
Instead I’m the same careworn bastard that I always am, with a faded shirt and in need of a shave—and now I can’t stop glancing at my own reflection in the dark office window, tugging at my collar as I fight wave after wave of unease.
It seemed like such a genius brainwave out there, to suggest this to Marigold. Seemed right.
Now I feel like a prize jackass. Why on earth would a sweet little thing like Marigold want to hang around after hours to draw me ?
“Prick,” I mutter, dragging my attention away from the warped, ghoulish reflection in the window, back to the financial spreadsheets on my computer screen. Christ, this view is no better. Groaning, I scrub a palm down my face, then force myself back to work.
Oh, the bar’s finances are just fine. We had a bumper summer, but still.
I’m not built to sit in squeaky desk chairs and squint at screens. This right here, all this admin and bullshit—this is the price I pay to keep my bar running, to stay lording over my own private kingdom where I don’t answer to any man.
The sounds of that kingdom float through the closed office door—humming country music, the stomp of boots over floorboards, bursts of drink-fueled laughter and loud talk—and usually I’m better at blocking everything out, but since Marigold started coming here, I’m distractible as hell.
Because she’s out there. Not twenty steps beyond that door, perched on that high stool with her cute purple dress riding up her thighs. And she said yes. Why’d she say yes? Was she just trying to humor me? Trying not to hurt any feelings? But she’s done all those sketches of me…
Fuck.
I should take it back. Make some excuse; act like tonight’s not a good time, then never, ever bring it up again. Maybe, if she presses me on it, claim that I had a stroke and lost my mind.
Do it , I urge myself, gripping the edge of the wooden table. Go out there and tell her it’s not gonna happen.
Except my ass stays planted firmly in my cracked leather desk chair.
Guess I won’t give up this chance to spend alone time with Marigold—not even in this shabby old shirt.
* * *
“It’s so quiet,” Marigold says, her voice hushed to match. She’s standing in the middle of the bar floor, sketchbook hugged to her front, blinking owlishly around the empty room. Abandoned tables and booths are silent in the golden light, freshly scrubbed after tonight’s guests, and the air smells like orange blossom and honey.
Even Jana and Tess have gone, each collected by their fella for the dark walk home. They both smirked at me and giggled together on their way out, digging elbows into ribs, but I let that slide.
Hard to be mad about anything when I’m with Marigold. And I’m with her now.
Alone.
Christ, she’s even smaller than I realized, now that I get a proper look at her. The top of her head wouldn’t even brush my chin.
“Where do you want to set up?”
My voice is rougher than usual, made extra gravelly by hours of cursing myself under my breath. Yet here we are, and this is happening. Sweet Marigold’s gonna draw me for the hundredth time, and this time we’ll both know about it.
A flush creeps up my neck at the thought. I cough and tug at one rolled sleeve.
“Maybe I could go there?” Marigold points at one of the booths, a pool of light spreading over its empty table. “And you could… um…”
Yeah. Um.
How do I even do this? How do I model for someone without looking and feeling like a total prick? ‘Cause it seems like I should stretch out on that table with an apple in my mouth, naked as a suckling pig, but that ain’t happening. I may only have the tiniest shred of dignity left, but I’m holding onto it with both hands.
Chewing on her bottom lip, Marigold crosses to the booth and spreads her sketchbook out over the table. As she finds a blank page, she’s extra careful not to let me see the stuff she’s already done.
The sketches she’s already done of me.
The reminder puffs up my chest, just a little. No need for me to stomp around blushing like a virgin bride—Marigold likes drawing me. That’s why I offered to do this, right?
So I could spend some time with her. So I could make her happy.
And so I could figure out why I’m sweet Marigold’s favorite subject.
Country music seeps from the wall speakers, the volume turned way down, and without all the crowds laughing and sweating in here, the temperature’s dropping fast. It’s like that at night in the mountains—we go from a hot, sweaty day to a frosty night with barely any warning. My little artist has goosebumps forming on her arms, and as she sharpens her pencil she suppresses a shiver.
Floorboards rattle under my boots as I stride to Marigold’s stool from earlier in the corner. Her sweater is slung across the stool, both sleeves dangling toward the floor. It’s a soft wool knit, the color of morning mist, and it’s delicate in my hands.
I’m careful as I bring it back to the booth, cradling it like something precious.
“Here.” Marigold blushes pink when I offer it to her. “Don’t catch a chill.”
Her blonde hair gets all mussed up as she pulls the sweater on, fuzzing out of her ponytail. Fuck, I want to pet that hair. Want to feel those silky strands slipping between my fingers; want to wrap her ponytail around my fist and tug.
“Thank you.” Marigold’s shy smile is a lance in my chest.
And Christ, I don’t want her to draw me right now. Don’t want to close up the bar either. All I want is to crash to my knees, sling Marigold’s legs over my shoulders, and bury my face in her pussy. Bet she’s sweet and sticky as honey down there.
“Maybe, um. Maybe you could stand there and… lean?”
Marigold points to a thick wooden pillar near the booth that stretches up to support the ceiling beams. The wood is gnarled and notched but solid as a rock, scratched with the graffiti of hundreds of drinkers over the years.
Callie Ray loves Jimmy P
I saw the wild man
Pete Frenkel’s got crabs
“Like this?” Hooking my thumbs in my pockets, I lean one shoulder against the pillar, letting my weight rest. Feels good after a long day of heaving kegs around then stiffening up in my office chair. Feels extra good to have Marigold’s baby blues running over me from head to toe, checking out every inch of me.
“Yes.” She wets her lips, then drags her sketchbook closer. Is that a hungry glint in her eyes? “Just like that.”
After all that shyness earlier, her pencil is sure as it swoops across the page, sketching out the swell of my shoulders, the line of buttons down my shirt, the belt slung across my hips. And whereas before she could barely meet my gaze close up, now Marigold’s frowning at me like I’m a specimen under her microscope.
Shameless. Proprietary. Like she owns me.
Christ, that’s an appealing thought. Makes my skin go hot and sensitive under my clothes.
The sketch comes together quickly. Marigold’s had a lot of practice, after all, and there’s no one else here tonight to break her focus; no rowdy drinkers to talk to her or accidentally jostle her arm. It’s just her and me and the moonlight spilling through the bar windows, as the speakers throb with melancholy tunes and her pencil scratches against paper.
Up, she looks at me.
Down, at her sketchbook.
Up, down, and every time her blue eyes find me, my heart headbutts my ribs.
“Do another one,” I scrape out as the sketch slows to a halt. “Keep going.”
Even though the tiredness of a long day is making my eyes itchy, I’m not ready for this to end just yet. And Marigold must feel the same way, because she nods eagerly and flicks to a new page.
“Maybe standing behind the bar?”
“Maybe sitting on that stool?”
“Maybe, if it’s not too cold, we could frame you in the open doorway?”
On and on it goes, sketch after sketch, as the moon climbs higher and the night ticks away, a headache throbbing in my temples. A headache I ignore, because who knows when a chance like this will come again? I’ll sleep when I’m in the ground.
This is my chance to see Marigold up close, free to stare at her openly as she nibbles on that bottom lip and sketches me again and again. My chance to hear her chat quietly about her old home, her Grandma, and the first art class that got her hooked. About the commissions she draws to make a living, and what she thinks of Starlight Ridge.
“I love it,” she says, determined not to meet my eye for that answer. Her ponytail slides over her shoulder as she shades in the hollow of my throat. “I know I should move on soon, but…”
“Why?” Can’t help but interrupt, my pulse spiking. “Why should you go? What’s making you?”
Marigold’s quiet for a long time, frowning at her sketchbook. Then: “Nothing, I guess.”
Her blue eyes find mine, then dart away.
My chest throbs.
For the last sketch, she has me sit opposite her in the booth, arms propped on the table. Close enough to feel her warmth and smell her pretty floral scent, and to hear every tiny rustle of paper.
When will Marigold show me those other secret drawings of me? Not tonight, that’s for sure, not with the way she’s so careful each time she finds a new blank page, tilting the sketchbook away from my prying eyes.
That secrecy sets my teeth on edge. Why keep hiding those sketches? Why act like I’d be anything less than thrilled? Doesn’t she get it by now?
I’m not exactly being subtle here.
“You’re good at this.” Marigold’s mouth twists into a wry smile, and she’s shading in the planes of my chest with such attention to detail, I’m rock hard beneath the table. Thank god I’m hidden by the booth.
It’s heady, that’s all. Her searching gaze, sweeping over every inch of my face and body; the appreciative way she hums sometimes, so quiet I don’t think she even realizes she’s doing it out loud. It’s like a drug.
“Good at what? Sitting around?”
“Keeping still.” Marigold pauses for a moment, shaking out her fingers. “You’re a patient man, Flint.”
“In some ways,” I agree. In other ways, not so much. For instance: if I don’t release the tension building in my body soon, I’m gonna grind my back teeth to powder.
It’s worth it, though—the dull ache in my gut; the pounding in my temples. The way my muscles strain against my bones, all fired up and ready for action. It’s worth it to ignore all those signals and hold still, be the perfect gentleman all night, so I can sit here in this booth and soaking up the sight of Marigold chewing her pencil.
“You’ll get graphite on your tongue.” My boot nudges hers beneath the table.
Marigold blinks at me, then looks down at the tooth marks in her pencil. “Oh. Oops. Have I got any…?”
“A bit,” I say, reaching across the table. “Here.”
My thumb rubs gently just below her bottom lip, stroking the dark smudge of graphite. It’s not coming away, but I keep rubbing.
“Flint,” Marigold whispers, staring at me, her lips moving above my thumb. Her pulse flutters beneath her jaw, tapping frantically at the soft skin there, and lord, what I’d give to feel that against my lips.
“It’s coming off,” I lie.
Then her tongue darts out and grazes my thumb, and we both go still.
A groan rumbles out of me, dredged from the very depths of my soul.
“ Marigold .” I cup the side of her neck and she lets me. Her chest rises and falls beneath that mist-colored sweater, moving quicker and quicker with each breath. “Fuck, Marigold.”
She launches to her feet, lurching out of the booth on wobbly legs. The pencil clatters to the floor.
There’s no time to stand up. Barely time to swing around to face her—then sweet Marigold launches herself at my chest.