Chapter 13 #3
That’s how our talks go over the next week or so.
He updates me on the plans, and I try my hardest not to stare at him.
Yes, he’s making the event fancy and exclusive.
Fine. Yes, he’s good at what he does. Fine.
And he’s gorgeous. And you want to touch his cheek and run your finger along his jawline.
And you want to kiss his mouth and see if his lips are as soft and kissable as they appear.
And you want to see more of his tender side, like he’s a mystery to solve.
My nights belong to my art. In my studio, surrounded by the familiar smell of paint, I push myself. I try new approaches I haven’t attempted in five years. The realization hits me. Maybe that’s why my muse rebelled, because I refused to let go of the control.
Who says the night sky has to be shades of black and blue?
With shaky hands, I let go of preconceived notions. I decide to put myself in a vulnerable spot, even if no one but me ever sees my work.
I mix colors with abandon, creating fiery oranges and reds. The night sky on my canvas burns, not figuratively, but in bold swirls of color and swaths of purple stars. Flames lick the curves of the sky and leap off the canvas.
It’s scary.
It’s different.
I love them.
I paint different versions every night leading up to the Eugene event, and it’s like I’ve caught fire myself.
I have several versions that make me proud.
Some nights I find myself on my knees in front of the canvases, tears streaming down my face.
Other nights I dance around my studio, paint-stained and giddy.
Like a scientist on the verge of a breakthrough.
It’s still early tonight. Not even ten pm. Well, early for me.
There’s only one place I want to be right now.
By the lake. At the dock. At Seymour’s boathouse.
I’ve been so focused on my painting, but now, before the Eugene event, I need to see the expanse of water before me.
Maybe he’ll be there. The thought makes my pulse quicken.
If I can put the innermost parts of my being on canvas again, then I can talk to him.
Face him. Finally say what needs to be said.
Or maybe it’s that I miss him. I want to be near him and feel that undeniable charge between us. I want to experience it in the tremble of my legs, the skipping beats of my heart, and the flush that rushes over my skin.
And not be scared by it. Challenge myself.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I head to the boathouse.
I don’t know where he lives, and I’m taking a chance he might be here.
The gravel crunches under my feet as I make my way down the dark path.
Everything about that night rushes back.
The quiet lapping of the water against the dock, the vast starry sky, Seymour’s presence beside me in the water.
Except, he’s not here now. I’m not sure whether I’m relieved or disappointed.
I walk to the end of the dock, my footsteps hollow on the wooden planks.
Standing at the edge, I stare out over the blackness of the lake.
The water stretches endlessly before me, a dark mirror reflecting pinpricks of starlight.
I tip my head back and gaze up at the sky, feeling small beneath its vastness.
Thankful. Again, the sting of tears threatens.
I sit on the damp wood and let my feet dangle in the cool water. Time slips away until I hear the creak of the dock behind me.
The sound sends prickles cascading down my back.
“Like to trespass on people’s properties as a habit?” His deep voice cuts through the night air.
“Only yours.” My voice comes out shaky, husky with something I’m afraid to name. Desire.
He’s in the shadows, but I can make out his tall form.
That doesn’t matter. Every part of me senses him, like he’s inches away instead of yards.
It’s time. Here, in the privacy and intimacy of the dock, where my muse broke free of the barriers I’d constructed, is where I need to apologize. To explain.
Sudden doubt squeezes my chest. What was I thinking? Coming here like I own the property or like he gave me permission to use it. He’s had Harris by his side like a watchdog, probably because he doesn’t want me hitting on him or something.
If only I could disappear right now. That would be nice.
But that’s not going to happen.
He shifts, and the dock moves under his weight. “Talk to me,” he says, but it comes out more like an order. The kind that makes my knees weak.
I hear the sternness in his voice, but it’s not cold or uncaring. It’s something else entirely. Something I can’t quite describe. Better to get this apology out and then take the walk of shame back to my car.
Deep breaths, Mandy. You can do this.
“There are a few things I need to say.” My throat tightens traitorously.
I push out the words anyway. “The other night...you’ll never know what it meant to me.
” I have to stifle another random sob that hits when I think about my art.
“You were so nice to bring me here. Get me out of my mind. Break the rut I was stuck in.”
I stop, struggling to steady my breathing.
I need to say this to his face. Not hiding in the dark, facing away from him, like a coward. I stand and turn. He’s leaning against the boathouse, his expression unreadable in the shadows. My heart pounds so hard I wonder if he can hear it.
The words continue to spill out of me. “I’ve had some epiphanies.
” I pause, waiting for a response. He remains silent, his stillness making me more nervous.
“I’ll never forget what you did for me here that night.
Even if Diana ordered you to distract me, you didn’t have to bring me here.
You could have brought me to a diner and bought me stale coffee. ”
He snorts softly. “I would never take anyone to a diner with stale coffee.” His voice carries a hint of amusement.
“Okay, well, you certainly didn’t have to do what you did.
” My fingers twist together as I speak. “I wanted to thank you. I appreciate it.” My mind flickers back to the paintings in my studio, how they wouldn’t exist without that night.
He’ll never know. “That night meant a lot to me. It was nothing you had to do...” I strain to see his face in the darkness.
Is he angry? Is he about to call Harris to come running?
“Yet you made it special. You bought grilled cheese. You talked to me. You let me talk...it was nice.” The next words come out barely above a whisper, nearly strangled in my throat.
“So thank you. And I’m sorry for not letting you explain. ”
Again. No response.
This was the absolute worst decision of my life. Being here. Invading his private property. Standing here rambling while he says nothing.
Not only because I can’t read his thoughts, but because now I’m wishing Harris was here. His presence would make this safer, less intimate.
There’s a pulse in the air between us. I feel it in every fiber of my body, a slow, gentle rhythm. It throbs in my chest, aches in my limbs. The space between us feels charged, electric, dangerous.
Except, he doesn’t seem to feel it.
It’s just me.
Well, just like with my art, I’m okay with that. I have to be. I said what I needed to say. I’ll feel better. I’ll sleep better.
“Okay, then. That’s really all I wanted to say. So, yup. I’ll just head on home.” I move to rush past him, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.
“Don’t go,” he says, then more softly, “Stay.”
I freeze mid-step, my heart stumbling in my chest. I slowly step back. “Um, okay.”
This is new territory, so different that I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say or do. Does he want more of an apology? More groveling?
Several moments pass in silence. Why is he so hard to read?
Oh, geez. He’s probably going to lecture me, or maybe there’s bad news.
That’s what this silence means. Eugene’s backed out, or he’s backing out.
Of course, I start rambling. “You might as well just tell me the bad news, because I do much better with it just being out there than me trying to guess and—”
“Stop talking.” And then, “Come here.”
“Where?” The word comes out as barely more than a squeak, because his voice has dropped lower, huskier, the tone vibrating through me.
“Toward me.”
“Like over there?” I hate how breathless I sound, how my voice trembles with nerves.
“Yes.”
I inch closer until I’m a couple of feet away.
“Closer.”
I take another step.
“Closer.”
Then, I’m inches away from him. My breathing is shallow, my knees unsteady beneath me.
Slowly, I lift my gaze until my eyes meet his.
In the dim light, his eyes are dark, his expression more open than I’ve ever seen it.
He’s let his guard down, showing me the vulnerability beneath.
And me? I’m about to dissolve into pure need and want.
But it’s more than that. We’ve formed connections over the past month, small threads binding us together.
I’ve seen sides of him others don’t get to see.
He’s protected me. He’s helped me. He’s gone out of his way. He opened his heart to a child.
His gaze holds mine steadily, like he’s memorizing every detail of my face. Warmth spreads through me under his scrutiny. I’ve never had someone look at me like this. Not even what’s-his-face-art-stealing-Todd.
“Touch me,” he whispers.
It’s not a question. It’s a gentle command, and like before, my body responds instantly. I reach out, my fingers trembling slightly, and trace the side of his jaw.
His eyes drift closed, and he groans softly.
His skin is smooth and warm under my fingertips. I reach his chin and then oh-so-lightly trace his lips. He sucks in a sharp breath, and the desire to kiss him overwhelms me. The world narrows to just this moment, just us standing here on this dock under the stars.
“Kiss me,” he says.