Chapter 4 #2
She approached the bench and leaned over the back so she could check out his sketch. “Already hard at work, I see.”
Before she could take a half step back, Alex lunged out of his seat and turned on her, his pad raised as though he meant to attack her with it.
“Gonna take me down with a paper cut, Villanueva?”
“Jesus, haven’t you ever learned not to sneak up on a man?” He let his pad drop to the bench with a flutter of pages. “You could get hurt that way.”
“We don’t have many people in Prophecy who’re quite as…
reactionary…as you are.” Then again, Cal had been a little jumpy from time to time after leaving his position as staff sergeant in the Army.
Not full-blown PTSD, but he’d certainly flinched a few times at loud noises or sudden movements. “Were you in the military?”
Alex’s laugh carried a dash of amusement with a healthy helping of cynicism. “Not in this lifetime.”
One glance down at his sketch, and Greer snatched it up, her insides going nuclear with more than physical attraction.
“These aren’t your normal acorns and flowers and leaves.
” After all, she’d hand her hands all over his oak leaves this morning, and although they’d been compelling…
compelling? Greer chuckled inside. She’d been about ready to propose marriage to his piece of leather.
But this design was both sexy and fun. He’d drawn a Dia de los Muertos scene complete with skeletons—one wearing a tiered skirt and the other a sombrero—dancing what looked like a bony cancan.
Flowers sprinkled the design, but they grew on bare branches with thorns as long as Greer’s pinkie nail and snaked up to twine their way between the dancers’ bones.
“Pretty detailed. You can tool it?”
“Why would I draw it if I couldn’t deliver?”
“What about the colors?”
“I can stain it too.”
She rounded the bench and sat, studying the design. At a closer look, it was clear the thorns weren’t thorns at all, but rather crosses sharpened to a lethal point. “What colors are you thinking?”
“I like the drama of a black boot.” Not surprising based on his dark good looks. He sat beside her and traced the outline of the female skeleton’s puffy, multilayered skirt. “Then you use bright colors on the actual design—ruby, maize, violet, emerald.”
His arm brushed hers as he spoke, and his scent drifted toward her. Slight sweet tang of grease. A cottony soap. And…bananas.
“What did she feed you?”
“Huh?”
“Raylene. What did she feed you?”
He grimaced, and his head fell back against the bench. “Can’t we just talk about leather instead?”
“Are you saying she served you something you didn’t like?” That would be a first. Because it was possible that Raylene was a better cook than she was a B&B keeper.
“Strangely enough, it was good. And I’m not one for a ladies’ salad trio.”
“Yum. I love her pimento cheese.” She leaned closer and sniffed, double checking the banana scent.
“You got dessert too.”
He slid her a sideways look. “What are you, a hound dog?”
“I just like food, Raylene’s especially.”
“After she stuffed me with girlie salad, she forced me to eat her You Drive Me Bananas pudding.”
“Forced?”
“Fine.” He grinned, the first full-out smile she’d seen on his face, and it hit her like a blast of summer humidity—stunned her and stole her breath. “Maybe I was a willing victim of the food but not the company.”
“Hey, Raylene’s a nice lady—”
“Yes, but she had guests when I got there.”
Oh, his comment made more sense now. “Her Bunco gals?”
“All I know is, I felt like a side of beef at a carnivore’s convention.”
Unable to help herself, Greer laughed. Damn, the guy had a healthy sense of humor, and she’d occasionally been attracted to witty lefties.
Was that a valid reason for her ovaries to sit up and take notice?
Please stay seated, you two, until this crazy train has come to a complete stop.
“So you escaped out here? You could’ve gone to the library where there are tables or even back to the boot shop. ”
“I was wandering around looking for a decent place when I spotted these benches. They’re amazing. I looked for a signature but couldn’t find one.”
“Yeah, he’s a modest one.”
“Honestly, it’s wrong to call them benches, because they’re sculptures.”
She snorted. “Tell my brother that.”
“He carved them?” Alex smoothed his hand along the edge of the seat, and the nerves under Greer’s skin tingled. “Is everyone in your family an artist?”
Greer breathed through the little spark of lust, and Delaney’s words from earlier circled her brain like Tweety birds.
Maybe you’re supposed to master something besides art.
“I’ve dabbled in everything from ceramics to my glassblowing, and Cal is still trying to get his feet under him, but PBC’s always been the cornerstone of Prophecy.
No one could hold a candle to my dad.” Or Delaney.
Maybe that was the undefinable problem she’d been wrestling with lately. She’d been trying all her life to make art as meaningful as her dad’s. But it was damn hard to compete with prophetic boots.
Alex leaned his forearms on his knees and studied her, his mesmerizing eyes muted through his dark lashes.
His gaze left her face and meandered downward.
Greer’s neck, chest, and tummy felt like a physical stroke.
Alex stopped his perusal when he reached her knee, currently bobbing up and down as though she’d guzzled three pots of coffee. “That bothers you.”
“No, I’m incredibly proud of the talent in my family.”
“But a girl like you? Measuring up is important. You want to make your family, your community proud.”
“Of course I do,” she said, wondering how they’d moved from discussing benches to what made her tick. “After all, your family, where you’re from, what you’ve experienced, make you who and what you are.”