Chapter Twenty-Five
Tabby
A nson talked me into coming to his house this evening. He said he was exhausted after spending the morning and afternoon helping the guys move Audrey’s things in, but I suspect it has more to do with him not wanting to risk another sleepover at my place. I felt bad when I woke to find him twisted like a pretzel.
The funny thing is, Indigo had no problem sleeping in the RV. I try to recall the few months we shared the tiny bed, and my mind can’t even conjure the image. Like it’s blocked out that time in my life.
I don’t hate Indy. I hate that he left the way he did, but I can’t regret the time we had. If we’d never met, I’d never have gathered the courage to walk away from my life in Boston. I’d have never found the perfect little Shasta. And I would never have found Sandcastle Cove.
Or Anson.
It was impulsive, but being impulsive is better than living in fear. Sometimes, you have to make a choice to change direction and take a leap because life is meant to be an adventure, not a prison sentence. If the life you’re living feels wrong, the most courageous thing you can do is start a new one—even if that new life means living in a tiny tin can and getting by on peanuts. Waking up happy and free, with a full belly and a clear mind, is worth it.
I look out over the railing as the late afternoon sun casts a golden-orange glow on the water. The waves roll gently toward the shore, their rhythmic crash and pull creating a soothing melody. Seagulls fly overhead, their cries carried by the breeze, while the salty air mingles with the faint scent of charcoal and warm wood from the deck beneath me.
I sit cross-legged with my easel set up in front of me, paintbrush in hand. The canvas captures the essence of the ocean, but it’s not quite right yet. The blues aren’t deep enough, the light not quite right.
I dip my brush into a swirl of cobalt and white, creating the illusion of foam and adding more movement to the waves, when I hear the sliding door open behind me.
“Your wine, m’lady,” Anson’s voice rumbles as he steps onto the deck.
I glance over my shoulder and smile. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of swim trunks and a grin. It’s not a bad sight. “Thank you.”
He squats behind me, setting the glass beside the easel. “That’s turning out nice,” he says in my ear before kissing my cheek and standing.
“Your view is too good not to paint.”
He grins, leaning against the railing with his arms crossed, watching me work. “You make it look easy.”
I shrug. “It is easy. You just paint what you see,” I say, lifting my chin to the beach below. “Just look at it.”
He chuckles. “It’s not easy.”
“It’s not?”
He shakes his head. “I tried painting once. Pretty sure my kindergarten teacher still has nightmares about the mess I made.”
I laugh, setting my brush down. “Then, maybe it’s time for a redemption story. Come here.”
He eyes me warily. “I feel like this is a setup.”
“It’s an opportunity,” I correct, patting the deck next to me. “To expand your artistic horizons.”
He exhales dramatically but sits beside me, stretching his legs out in front of him. “All right, Picasso, teach me your ways.”
I hand him a paintbrush and squeeze some red and yellow paint onto a palette for him. “Start with the sun. Smooth, circular strokes.”
He dips the brush into the paint and drags it across the canvas in an uneven, jagged line. I wince.
“Okay,” I say, biting back a laugh. “Not bad.”
He glances at me. “That was the most condescending ‘not bad’ I’ve ever heard.”
I press my lips together. “Try again. This time, be gentle. Think of it like …” I search for a comparison he’ll understand. “Like handling the throttle on your boat. Easy, even control.”
His expression shifts, like maybe that makes sense. He tries again, and the second stroke is better, but he still looks completely out of his depth.
“Ugh, I suck. I’m not much better with a paint roller either,” he mutters, glaring at the brush like it personally offended him.
“Art requires patience,” I tease. “And less aggression.”
He huffs but tries one more time. Just as his brush sweeps across the canvas, a gust of wind kicks up, sending his line off course. Frustrated, he flings the brush onto the palette, smearing a streak of orange paint straight across his cheek in the process.
I slap a hand over my mouth to stifle a giggle, but it’s no use.
Anson scowls. “What?”
“Um, you have”—I gesture to my own cheek, trying to keep a straight face—“a little something. Right there.”
He wipes at his cheek with his arm, but all that does is smear more paint onto his biceps.
I lose it. Laughter bubbles up uncontrollably.
He glares at me. “Oh, you think this is funny?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head and biting my lip.
His eyes gleam with mischief, and before I can react, he dips his fingers into the paint and swipes a streak right down my nose.
I gasp, “Anson!”
“Hmm,” he says smugly. “No, not enough even control.” He scoops a dollop of white and taps it onto the tip of my nose. “There, that’s better.”
I grab my own brush, dabbing it in the red paint. “You sure you want to start a war you can’t win?” I ask as I hold it aloft.
His smirk falters for half a second before I reach out and smear a bold red stripe across his forearm.
“All right,” he says, rolling his shoulders like an athlete about to compete, “game on.”
The next thing I know, we’re full-blown painting each other.
Anson drags his fingers through a glob of green and splatters it onto my collarbone. I retaliate by tapping yellow onto his jawline. He grabs the palette and scrapes it across my forearm, and I streak turquoise across his chest.
We’re both laughing, breathless, and covered in so much paint that we look like walking art projects when he grabs the entire tube of purple and aims it at me.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” I scream as I launch myself at him, tackling him onto the blanket beneath us.
We wrestle as I try to wrench the tube from his hand. He finally drops it, and he brings his hands to my hips as I straddle him.
“You know,” I say, catching my breath, “you’re kind of a masterpiece right now.”
He smirks. “Maybe I should quit my day job and become a professional canvas.”
I pretend to consider it. “Maybe. Let’s see how well you take direction first.”
I grab a small brush and dip it in deep blue, then trail it down his arm in slow, deliberate strokes, drawing swirls and waves like the ocean itself. His skin is warm beneath my touch, muscles shifting slightly as I paint along his biceps.
His breathing changes—slower, deeper—as he watches me.
I look down, and our eyes meet. The teasing fades into something electric.
“Careful, Tabby,” he murmurs, voice lower now. “There are still people on the beach.”
I smirk, dipping my brush in gold this time. “I’m just painting.”
I press the bristles to his chest, just over his heart, tracing lazy patterns against his skin. His muscles tighten under my touch, his gaze locked on mine.
“No. You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says, voice rougher now.
“Am I?” I ask innocently, dragging the brush lower, just above the waistband of his swim trunks.
His fingers twitch at my sides, like he’s fighting the urge to stop me. “You tell me.”
The air between us thickens, and my pulse begins to pound in my ears. I don’t know if it’s the paint or the sun or him, but I feel like I’m burning up.
Then, in one swift motion, he flips the table.
He reaches out, grabbing my wrist mid-stroke, and tugs me forward as he sits up.
His arms wrap around me, holding me in place.
I tilt my head, brushing the tip of my paint-covered finger against his jawline. “Now, you really look like a work of art.”
His eyes darken. “Yeah?” His voice is a low rasp. “Then, maybe you should sign your masterpiece.”
His hands tighten on my waist, and before I can respond, he crashes his lips against mine.
The kiss is hungry, paint-smudged, and completely intoxicating. His fingers slide up my back, tugging me closer, deepening the kiss. I melt into him, my hands finding his hair, his chest, his shoulders. I don’t care that we’re covered in paint. I don’t care that we’re making an absolute mess. All I care about is this—the way he tastes like salt and summer, the way my body fits against his, like I was made to be his.
A sudden, horrified gasp shatters the moment.
“Oh my God, you guys are naked!”
We jolt apart, breathless, turning to see Parker and Audrey standing at the top of the stairway that leads onto the deck. Audrey’s mouth is open in shock, but Parker is smirking.
“No, we’re not naked,” I say, my voice shaky as I climb out of Anson’s lap.
Audrey covers her eyes anyway. “You look naked. The paint—it’s—” She gestures wildly. “Oh my God, it’s everywhere!”
Parker just grins, arms crossed. “Well, this is definitely the most interesting thing I’ve walked in on.”
Anson groans, dragging a hand down his face—and smearing even more paint. “This is not what it looks like.”
“It definitely is,” Parker says, grinning wider.
Audrey peeks through her fingers. “You have pants on, right?”
Anson sighs. “I have trunks on.”
I stand and reach a hand out to help him up.
Parker waggles his eyebrows. “Oh, don’t stop on our account.”
Audrey yelps and smacks his arm. “We are not staying to watch.” She grabs his hand and drags him to the door as she calls over her shoulder, “We picked up Chinese. Hose off before you come inside.”
The door slams, leaving us alone again.
I bite my lip, looking at Anson. He’s still seated, and his arms come around my waist and pull me back down to my knees. Both of us are covered in paint, head to toe, and our clothes are a disaster, our breathing still uneven.
We both burst out laughing.
“Well,” he says, wiping a streak of blue from my cheek, “that escalated quickly.”
I grin. “Yeah, but I have to admit …” I trail my fingers down his chest again, smirking. “You make a pretty good canvas.”
His eyes darken once more. “Careful, Trouble,” he murmurs, his voice filled with promise. “Because I’m definitely not done with you yet.”
He stands up, pulling me with him, and carries me down the steps to the outdoor shower stall nestled underneath the deck.