17. Jess #2
I hum to myself as I retrieve the supplies I bought at a local art store and set myself up in the backyard—I’m not going to risk getting paint on the pristine floors of Aiden’s renovated house.
I spread the dust sheet on the lawn and prop my canvas on a makeshift easel assembled from old plastic garden chairs I found in the shed.
Obviously banished to exile after the patio makeover.
I’m still in my bathing suit, but as said bathing suit is an ancient and saggy purple one-piece that does nothing for my figure, I’m not too worried about getting paint on it.
Besides, Courtney would be delighted for an excuse to take me bikini shopping.
When I appeared outside to sunbathe with her earlier, I got a ten minute lecture about embracing my inner sex kitten and flaunting what the Good Lord gave me.
Pfft. Inner sex kitten, my butt. Try old, overweight, fleabitten tabby cat with half an ear missing.
Anyway, despite the innate unattractiveness of my bathing suit, I feel pretty secure in the fact that no one’s going to see me prancing around in the yard with my paint brushes.
Courtney’s safely ensconced at home, Aiden is tucked away in LA, and Conor’s working late again today. I made sure to confirm over text.
Which means that it’s just me, my canvas, and, hopefully, inspiration.
I set out my paint brushes, mixing palette, and tubes of paint, and then put my headphones in. May as well bring out the old “Heartbreak Playlist Part 2”—the Taylor Swift edit.
With the bitter breakup sounds of “I Knew You Were Trouble” blasting in my ears, I circle the blank canvas, studying it.
I nod to myself, my adrenaline building as creativity starts to flow through my veins like a drug.
It’s been too long since I painted, and now that I’ve worked myself up to this moment, excitement vibrates through me.
I’ve missed this.
I seize my paint brush, splash dollops of seafoam green, burnt ochre and navy onto my palette, and get to work.
Something funny happens when you get lost in creating.
It’s like your mind and body become one, moving in tandem to chase a vision.
You make something conceptual become tangible before your very eyes.
Space, and time, and worries—things you have to do, or say, or be—all just melt away.
When I paint, it’s just me and the paint brush, dancing in our very own world of color, movement and beauty.
There’s just one tiny potential downside to entering this special world: You lose all sight and track of the real world. Which can be wonderful.
But, can also be not-so-wonderful.
Like, when you’re bleating along to Taylor Swift, prancing around in a bathing suit that’s lost all elasticity around the butt, and your hot roommate shows up.
With his equally hot realtor in tow.
“Urghh!” I make a strangled sound and drop my paint brush as Conor and the redhead from the night at the bar— Karla— stare at me. The brush clatters to the ground, sending a spray of seafoam splatters all over my legs in the process.
My very bare, very pale, very unshaven legs. Frick, frick frick.
“Conor, Karla… hello! ” I squeal. My voice is so loud, I can hear it over my blaring headphones.
I rip them out and drop them on the ground next to my paint brush.
I cross my arms over my chest. Cross my legs.
Uncross my legs when I realize I must look like I need to run to the restroom.
Finally, I settle for smiling way too brightly. “What’s up?”
All the while, the two of them simply stare at me like I’m some exotic animal in a zoo.
A hippopotamus, perhaps.
And what’s with me and all the nature comparisons lately?
Karla’s perfect features twist in horror as her eyes move over me, while Conor’s beautiful face contorts in undisguised amusement.
“Hi Jess,” he says through his you-know-what -eating grin.
His green eyes hold my gaze, glinting with silent laughter.
He’s clearly getting way too much enjoyment out of this.
“We just dropped by to grab paperwork before we check out a few listings for upcoming projects, and thought we’d say hi. What’s up with you?”
“Oh, you know.” I shrug nonchalantly. Or, as nonchalantly as is possible when red-faced and wearing the world’s most unflattering one-piece. “Painting.”
“In a bathing suit?”
“Yes,” I say smoothly. Move along, nothing to see here. “It’s a technique that lots of artists use.”
“Is that so?” Conor takes a step towards me. “And what’s this technique called?”
“Stippling.” I take a step away from him. Mostly so I can think better. Because I have no idea why I said that.
“Stippling,” Conor repeats slowly. That dratted grin tugs at his lips again. The one that makes me want to slap him in the face but also scream “have my babies!”
I go an even more alarming shade of beetroot. All the way down to my legs. Which, on the bright side, means that they’re not so pale anymore.
Karla frowns. “Isn’t stippling when you make lots of tiny dots?” She holds up a perfectly manicured hand and mimes the process.
Of course. Not only is Karla the epitome of business chic in her white pantsuit, patent leather stilettos and matching handbag, but she knows that I’m lying.
She has absolutely no paint on her person, her makeup is flawless, and she probably shaved her legs this morning even though she’s wearing pants. Who does that?
“It can be.” I nod, trying to look casual.
Conor is still smirking. But then, his gaze lifts as he focuses on something behind me.
My painting.
My lungs constrict, and for a moment, I forget my apparent determination to consistently embarrass myself. I whirl around so I can see my work through Conor’s eyes.
You know that thing that men do when they see a Ferrari or a fancy speedboat? Where they circle the object slowly, almost reverently, tilting their head to look at it from each and every angle, studying it like it's the eighth wonder of the world?
That’s what Conor does with my painting.
As he approaches the canvas, I realize I’m holding my breath, waiting for his reaction. I also realize how important his reaction is to me. And yet, a warm, fuzzy feeling gathers in my stomach and spreads through my entire body. Nobody has ever given my art this kind of consideration before.
Johnny barely even glanced at my paintings. My parents thought my dreams of being an artist were just that—dreams.
But, Conor is looking at my work like it means something. Like it matters.
“Jess,” he finally says, looking at me. My breath catches as I see the fire in those green eyes. “This is incredible.”
“You think?” I don’t know where to look, so I stare at the ground. I’m not used to receiving such compliments.
Conor takes another step towards me. And another. Heat prickles the back of my neck at his closeness. But, this time, I don’t step backwards.
“Jess,” he says again. His voice is low. “Look at me.”
Slowly, I tilt my head up to meet his emerald gaze. Every nerve in my body sizzles as we stare at each other.
“It’s fantastic,” he says gravely, his eyes sincere. “I mean it.”
It takes me a moment to accept that he’s serious. Actually serious. He’s not trying to humor me or make me feel better—he really likes it.
My heart soars.
“I’m so glad.” My voice is so throaty, it sounds like I swallowed a swarm of bees.
There’s a moment of heaviness between us—a moment of aching anticipation that takes my breath away. It feels a little like the moment by the pool when he (maybe) almost kissed me. No, it feels a lot like that moment.
My body buzzes and my brain goes out the window. My conversation with Courtney suddenly fades far, far away into oblivion. Right now, I can believe that Conor might want to kiss me. Right now, all I’m aware of is the intense attraction I feel towards him.
Not only because of the magnetism he projects, but because, somehow and for no apparent reason, he believes in me. Seems to see something in me that feeds my soul.
I think he must feel it too, because, still staring into my eyes, he touches his hand to the corner of his bottom lip.
“You got a little…” he murmurs, then he leans forward. Moves that same hand towards my face.
And my heart stops.
Time stops.
Everything stops as he grazes the pad of his thumb across my mouth. Electricity sparks on my lips at his touch. I inhale sharply, and his pupils dilate.
His face is only inches from mine, and I feel my breath quickening.
Is he going to—
“Paint on your face!” Karla’s squeal finishes Conor’s sentence, murdering the moment. And for a moment, I want to murder her, too.
We spin around and Conor jerks his hand backwards, blinking like he’s just remembered where he is. He breathes out shakily. “Yup. You had some paint on your chin.”
“It’s in your hair, too,” Karla adds.
I reluctantly move my eyes towards Karla and, above her oh-so-helpful smile, she’s glaring daggers at me, her eyes narrow and cold.
The tension in the air is thicker than molasses. And I’m suddenly desperate to get out of this sticky situation.
Now.
“Oh, silly me.” My nervous giggle makes me sound like a schoolgirl. And not the Hit Me Baby One More Time type of schoolgirl. More like a teenager fangirling over Justin Bieber. “I’d better go wash up.”
Karla’s dagger eyes never leave mine as she snakes a possessive arm around Conor’s bicep and gives it a squeeze.
“We’d better go anyway or we’re going to be late.
” She shoots me a fake apologetic smile.
“Sorry we’ve got to jet, but business calls.
Conor won’t have any houses to flip if we stand around and chat all day. You know how it is.”
I don’t know how it is. And I’m pretty sure she’s aware of that.
Judging by the glint in her eye, she also knows she’s done a great job of making me feel small and unimportant. Just a dumpy, paint-splattered idiot in a saggy bathing suit next to a willowy, beautiful, successful businesswoman in a power suit .
This feels uncomfortably familiar...
Karla’s hand is still wrapped around Conor’s arm and I want to swat it away. Until I turn my eyes to him.
Because, despite the fact that Karla has the upper hand in every single way right now—both physically and metaphorically—he’s looking at me . Intently.
“See you later, Jess,” Conor says in a voice that sends shivers down my spine and makes me want to start counting the minutes until “later” arrives.