Chapter 16
CHAPTER 16
NATALIE
I groan like a ninety-year-old as I stand up and step back from the mayor’s house, rubbing my lower spine. Crawling around painting the flowers and grass along the bottom has just about finished me off.
But a wiggle of my hips in time to “Last Christmas” does help to loosen it up.
And the good news is, this crucial piece of scenery is done. And it looks pretty damn great, if I do say so myself.
The stonework has come out well, and I’m particularly pleased with the curtains and window boxes. I might have struggled a bit on the step ladder to reach the top ones—but only because there was no way I was going to accept Gabe’s offer of help. I needed to keep him safely on the far side of the stage so no nonsensical kissing situations could re-arise.
I wipe my paint brush on the rim of the can, then press the lid back on. Only then do I allow myself to turn and look at the six-foot-something wall of splendor that’s painting trees. Like he wasn’t sexy enough already, watching him carefully add brown branches to break up the masses of green is utterly heart melting.
I can only see the side of his face, but the concentration in it is fucking adorable. And the way his jeans stretch across those bulky, solid thighs as he crouches down is adorable in a totally different way. But they both have the exact same panty-dampening effect.
Closing my eyes for a second, I remind myself that everything about him and our circumstances make him a no-go zone. Not to mention the media stories that say he treats women incredibly badly.
But how can the man who cared for my ankle, who marched onto the ice to break up a fight, who gave Grayson his own gloves, and who came here tonight purely to complete the task he’d promised to do without seeking a single ounce of recognition for it be a total assjacket?
I just can’t put the two things together.
But I also can’t put him and me together either.
Even if I were looking for a relationship, it wouldn’t be with someone who’s my polar opposite in every way and who I’m about to live nowhere near. No matter how sexy it is that he’s focusing so damned hard on painting that branch.
I wipe my hands on my jeans—the ones covered in six years of Christmas play scenery paint—and pull my phone from my pocket.
“Shit.” I can’t believe how late it is.
“You okay?” Gabe turns around so fast brown paint flies from his brush and splatters across the green part of the tree.
“Yes, but that tree won’t be if we don’t get that paint off right away.” I grab a clean rag and trot toward the Gabe danger zone.
It’ll be fine. I just have to remember that deep down he’s a jerk, and then everything will be fine.
He’s already dabbing at the paint by the time I get there and when we reach for the same spot at the same time our forearms brush each other.
The shiver that runs up my arm, across my chest and down between my legs is exactly what I was trying to avoid.
“Oh, God. I’m making it worse.” I’m not so much removing the paint as redistributing it, in large brown smears.
“Try this.” Gabe picks up a container of water from near his feet and offers it to me.
As I dip my cloth into it, I cast my eyes along his forest production line. “Wow, you’ve done them all.”
“Yup,” he says as what resembles a genuine human smile breaks out amid his beard.
“What’s that on the one at the end?” I point to the farthest tree that has something extra on it that I can’t quite make out.
His eyes meet mine, and the glint in them reignites that tremor low in my belly. Could this man be any hotter?
No.
The answer is no.
He could not be.
“Come see.” He puts down the water and takes about three strides to get to the end of the line of trees.
It takes me closer to six.
He looks from the tree to me. Doing that thing with his eyes again.
I refuse to be drawn into that and force myself to focus on his artwork.
There, amid the branches, he’s painted a nest. A bird’s nest. With three little baby bird faces peeking out the top.
I mean, they look like they’ve been painted by a twelve-year-old with limited art skills, but I have to give him credit for thinking of it and trying.
“You painted a bird’s nest?”
He nods. Slowly.
And my eyes have been tempted back in again. Trained on his, as though if I stop looking into them I might stop breathing. My chest trembles, which makes my breath come out in strange little bursts.
He takes half a step closer and the aroma of spicy oranges cuts through the smell of fresh paint, triggering something in my brain that sends sparks to every corner of my body. The cloth I was holding falls out of my hand.
“When I was leaving the theater on Saturday,” Gabe says, “I bumped into Abigail and her dad outside. For some reason she told me she likes birds, and that last spring a starling built a nest on the corner of their garage and she and her dad kept an eye on it. Then there were eggs. And then the eggs hatched one by one. And she seemed so excited and fascinated by it. So I thought I’d?—”
And my fingers are on his beard, pulling his startled face toward mine as I reach up on tiptoe and my lips find his for the second time in two days.
And this time I don’t care. He can’t be that much of an ass if he’s painted baby birds for Abigail. And we’re both here for only a couple more weeks. What other chance am I going to have to get my hands on the hottest hunk of human I have ever set eyes on?
He doesn’t pull away. He closes his eyes, and after a couple of brushes of his lips against mine they part, his tongue searches for mine, finds it and that’s it—I’m lost, gone, dissolving into the warmth of his mouth, the tickle of his beard, the strength of his body against mine.
Then his hands are under my butt, and he picks me up, pulling my legs around his waist.
This is the most reckless thing this unadventurous girl has done in her entire life. And it feels really fucking good. Thrilling, wildly dangerous, and really fucking good.
Gabe is walking now. Carrying me down the steps at the front of the stage.
I break contact with his mouth for a second. “Where are we going?”
When we reach the front row of seats, he lets go of me with one hand, leaving my entire weight supported on just one of his forearms while he reaches behind me, arranging something.
“I thought here might be good.” He gently lowers me onto his jacket that he’s just laid out on the seat.
Oh, for the love of all that is holy, he was laying out his coat for me . My legs would collapse under me from the total swooniness of it all if he hadn’t already set me down on his coat .
But there’s no way I’m going to let him know that.
“I still don’t like you,” I tell him.
“And I totally respect that,” he growls, and kneels between my legs.