43. Kaitlyn #2
This is already the most thoughtful date I’ve ever been on, and it’s just started.
He looks as dazed as I feel once he pulls away, reaching to tuck my unbound waves behind my ear, but then Bailey smiles. “You were painting earlier, weren’t you?” he asks, and I feel my face grow hot.
“Why are you asking?”
His eyes crinkle as he laughs, messing with my hair again. “You have paint in your hair. I like it, though. It’s just one of the many things I like about you.”
“What else do you like?” I ask, memorizing the soft glow of his hair, and the light brown color of his lashes.
“I like how you’re not afraid to say what you’re thinking.
I like that you take care of the people you love.
I like that you’re still figuring out who you are as a person, because it makes me hopeful I can learn who I am too.
I like seeing you first thing in the morning on your surfboard because it’s my favorite place to think too.
I like how you make me feel like I can be the best version of myself just by being around you. ”
My smile is so wide, it feels like it’s splitting my face in half. “Thank you for planning this.”
“I thought you deserved something nice after all the craziness in our lives recently,” he says, leading me to the easels.
Bailey steps away, letting me look over everything, then comes back with a bottle of wine from the back room and two glasses.
“My mom said Moscato was your favorite to drink, and she promised I’d like it too. ”
“It’s like a sparkling grape juice, I’m pretty sure you’ll like it,” I agree, playing with the fabric of my romper. “So what are we going to paint?”
“Well, since you won’t let me see anything you paint, I thought it’d be fun to try painting each other. I know you’re the professional, but I’ll try my best,” he says, and I’m pretty excited to see what Bailey can come up with.
Two hours and a bottle of wine later, I’m helping Bailey move everything to the back until we come to deal with it tomorrow.
My painting ended up being a rushed version of the broody blond in front of me, focusing on the big picture instead of the finer details I normally try to focus on.
We’re both highly competitive, so I thought it would be fun if we set a timer to see how much we could accomplish.
Bailey opens the truck door for me, and I shake my head, still laughing at him. “I don’t know what you did for ninety minutes if you only had a stick figure on your canvas when the timer went off.”
“I was too busy watching you,” he protests, his laugh echoing into the fading light of day, and I shake my head at him.
“But you were supposed to be painting too,” I remind him, and Bailey rolls his eyes.
“You’re forgetting it wasn’t just a stick figure because I gave you beautiful hair,” he says, helping me into the truck. He walks around, getting in the driver’s side.
“Bailey.” I cross my arms over my chest, trying not to smile, but he’s so damn adorable right now.
“You just make it look so effortless. I can’t believe you haven’t let me see any of your paintings before.”
I bite my lip, trying not to feel my cheeks flush as he pulls onto the road. “I have a lot of practice. You’ll get the hang of it.”
Bailey moves to reach for my hand, lacing our fingers together. “I think I could spend years trying, and I’d never have a fraction of the talent you have. I can’t believe you’ve only been painting for a couple of years now.”
“My years of doodling helped, but there were a lot of free workshops at Duke. It was something I went to for fun, but one of the professors in the arts department came up to me at one. She actually invited me to sign up for her class last spring, and I learned a lot from her,” I explain, smiling at the thought of Professor Reed.
She waived the prerequisite for the Introduction to Visual Arts course you’re supposed to take prior to hers, and I remember the conversation we had at the end of the semester where Professor Reed asked if I had considered declaring a Visual Arts major.
I brushed it off at the time because I couldn’t imagine telling my parents I wanted to get a degree in painting. I think I’d give my dad a heart attack if I tried.
“Have you thought about taking more classes like hers?” he asks, reading my mind.
“It doesn’t feel like a real career,” I admit, and Bailey squeezes my hands, resting them on my thigh.
“So what? Kait, your parents love you, and I know they’d rather support you in doing what you love than watch you be miserable for a paycheck.”
I look down at our conjoined hands, seeing how his dwarfs mine. “I know, but I think that’s what terrifies me,” I admit, chewing on my lower lip. “I enjoy it and I think the more I practice, the better I’ll get, but what if the second I take the leap to turn it into a job, I end up hating it?”
“Then you switch gears, and we’ll figure it out together.”
My heart swells, and I feel like a cloud floating in the sky, as light as air.
“Together,” I echo, and it feels like a promise.
“I had a really great time tonight, even if I learned how much I suck at painting,” he says, pulling into my parents’ driveway .
“I had a great time too, Bailey,” I say, turning to face him. Honestly, I’m not ready for the night to end, and he makes me feel brave. “Do you want to see my paintings?”
His light eyebrows rise in surprise. “Yes,” he blurts out, and I try not to laugh at how quickly he answered. He knows me well enough by now to take advantage before my nerves creep in.
I’m not worried about what he’ll think when he sees my paintings. If it wasn’t clear before, he’ll know I haven’t been joking about how often I paint him, or how many reminders of him I’ve left in my canvases.
Bailey follows me in, and I look forward, refusing to second guess this.
My heart skips a beat when I see the sunflowers sitting in a vase Bailey must have found in the cabinets.
When I open the door to the room I’ve been using as my studio, I hold my breath, seeing the painting I was engrossed in earlier—the culprit for the paint in my hair at the beginning of the night.
I was painting the sun, focusing on all the different shades of yellow and orange, blending them together.
The real showstoppers are around the room, propped against the walls and stacked on top of each other. I stopped questioning Henry a couple of months ago when he kept having canvases delivered, because it didn’t seem worth arguing with him when I knew he wasn’t going to stop.
Now, it’s contributed to my limitless collection of art, which seems to be piling up with nowhere to go.
“Sunshine, you painted all of these?” Bailey asks, and I glance in his direction, my anxiety starting to fill in the gaps of my confidence.
“Yeah,” I admit. He stares at them all, but his gaze gets stuck on the painting I made nearly three months ago when Bailey first came back. “Wait, don’t look at that one,” I blurt out, moving to stand in front of it .
“You really did paint me,” he says, his eyes flickering over my face.
I swallow the lump in my throat, nodding. “You’re the star of a lot of these, but that one I couldn’t get right. I told you, the blond contradicts the broodiness,” I remind him, feeling a flush crawl up my neck.
“I told you I’d dye it if you wanted,” Bailey teases, but there’s nothing about the way he’s looking at me that’s a joke.
“You also told me I could paint you like a French girl.”
Bailey’s gaze is intense, and I don’t know how to say that I want more of him. He exhales a long breath, running a hand through his hair, causing the strands to shift and fall into his face. “Is that what you want?”
“I want you,” I say, being as honest as I can.
The air in the room is crackling with electricity.
“How do you want me?” he asks, pulling his shirt off. His skin is golden from all the hours spent surfing and out in the sun this summer, and if I want to back out now, this would be the time.
I don’t want to stop.
I want him.
I’ve always wanted Bailey.
“Take off your pants,” I say, and a smile lifts the corners of his mouth as he steps out of his sneakers. His hands fall to the button on the front of his jeans, unfastening them as he pushes them down over his thighs, and finally, steps out of them.
The front of his briefs is tented, and I stare for a moment, feeling him watch me intently. My nipples harden, and his gaze is trained on my chest before lifting to meet my eyes. Bailey’s throat bobs, but he stands tall, not shying away.
“Everything, Walker,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t give away my desperation to see him.
He hooks his thumbs on the elastic waistband, pushing them down to join his jeans on the floor. “Look at me, Price. How can you paint me if you don’t?” he asks, his voice hoarse and full of wanting.
I think he’s as desperate as I am.
My gaze falls to his hardened cock, and a quiet gasp escapes me. “You’re perfect,” I whisper, fighting the urge to move closer to touch him. My mouth waters, watching his dick twitch, and my body pulses, aching for more.
“I’m not perfect, but I am yours,” he says, wrapping a hand around himself. “It’s your turn. Take off your clothes.”
I slide the straps off my shoulders, and I feel powerful when Bailey strokes himself as my romper falls around my waist, exposing my bare chest to him.
He hisses through his teeth, and my hands are trembling with excitement.
A few moments later, I’m standing there as bare as he is, my breath quickening under his watchful gaze.
“Fuck, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he says, and I can’t wait to watch him come undone. “You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted.”
And with that, my self-control snaps.