7. Wendi
7
Wendi
Where’s everyone at?
Wendi had lined up the brushes, adjusting each until the bristles pointed in the same direction. Four spots, ready. Water cups filled to the rim. Palettes set with fresh paint. Everything in place ... except the people.
She checked the clock: 2:53 p.m.
Class starts at three.
Max snored softly in his window bed, paws twitching at whatever he was chasing in his dreams. Outside, clouds moved in over the water.
Wendi rolled her shoulders, pressing her fingers into the tight muscle near her neck. Across the room, Wednesday’s auction blared from the calendar in thick, red ink. It’d be her last chance to save The Painted Shell. And beneath it, Laurel’s offer in blue:
Fewer hours
More money
Benefits
Vacation time
Stability
Less than two weeks to decide between chasing the dream that kept her awake at night or accepting the steady paycheck that might finally let her get some rest.
The bell over the door jangled, startling her. She looked up, pasting on her customer smile. Arthur stepped inside, clutching a canvas bag. Miles followed behind—
No hat this time?
Without it, his brown eyes were darker, more intense, scanning the shop with a quiet focus. His sandy-blond hair curled at the ends. And the way his T-shirt stretched across his chest and arms? Yeah, she was absolutely, definitely not looking.
Heat crept up her neck.
“You made it,” she said, then cleared her throat. “Both of you.”
“Had to hurry getting groceries.” Arthur huffed. “Self-checkout almost made us late. I don’t get it—used to be their job to scan everything.”
Miles smirked. “Dad, it’s not that bad.”
“It is when I’m doing the work for free.” Arthur shook his head. “This generation will be the end of us, I’m telling you.”
Wendi bit her lip. “Well, the good news is you two saved me from talking to myself all afternoon.” She gestured at the empty tables. “Looks like it’s just us.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Max spring up from his bed. He bounded straight past Wendi and launched himself at Arthur, pawing at his shins.
“Hey, buddy.” Arthur chuckled, steadying himself as Max danced on his hind legs. “Ready to paint?”
“I’ve got a spot for you,” Wendi said, leading them to the north-facing windows.
Arthur settled in, unpacking his bag. Miles grabbed a stool and set it against the wall, close enough to observe but still keeping his distance.
“Today’s theme is seascapes,” Wendi said, laying out some reference photos. “But I’m guessing this isn’t new to you.”
“Painted more of these than I can count.” Arthur tested his brush. “The ocean’s never still long enough to get it right.”
“That’s exactly what makes it challenging.” She leaned in, tapping the reference photo. “See how the foam isn’t actually white? The sky, the water—it all bleeds into it. That’s what makes it look real.”
Arthur squinted. “Always struggled with that part.”
“Try this.” Wendi picked up a fine brush, demonstrating on a scrap of paper. “Instead of painting the foam directly, paint the shadows around it first. Then use your lightest color with the tip of the brush—almost dry—and let the texture of the paper do some of the work.”
Arthur raised his eyebrows. “Huh. Never thought of approaching it backward like that.”
“It’s like negative space. Your brain fills in what the brush hints at. Less is more with white water.”
Arthur followed her lead. A few strokes, a smudged shadow—suddenly, the foam lifted from the page. He sat back with a satisfied smile. “Well, I’ll be. That does look better.” His hands continued moving, and within minutes, he’d blocked in a horizon and waves that seemed to move on the paper.
She let out a low whistle. “You just did that. Like it was nothing.”
“I suppose I did,” Arthur said, adding a streak of yellow where the sun hit the water. “Looks more alive now.”
She nodded, then glanced up to find Miles watching them. Their eyes met across the room, and he leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees. Her stomach dipped.
Of course. Just my luck.
She resisted the urge to check if her bun had fallen apart like it always did by mid-afternoon. The thrifted T-shirt she’d thrown on this morning now felt too casual—especially with the coffee stain she really hoped he hadn’t noticed.
I should’ve put on mascara.
Wendi turned back to Arthur. “You really have been doing this for a long time. This looks amazing.”
“Still got it in me. At least most of it.”
As Arthur painted, Max settled beside his chair, resting on his shoe.
“Your water’s looking murky,” she said, reaching for his cup. “Let me refresh that for you.”
“Yeah, that’d be great,” he said without looking up.
With Arthur settled with clean water, she made her way to the kitchenette, keeping an eye on him from across the room. “Coffee?” she asked Miles.
He glanced up from his phone. “Yeah, thanks.”
She poured two mugs, adding a splash of cream to hers. When she passed him his, their fingers brushed—for a second.
Did he notice that? Or was it just me?
“He’s incredible,” she said. “Most people overthink it.”
“Funny thing is, he never had any formal training. He worked at a plant—random shifts, long hours.” He took a sip. “But any free time he had, he was painting. Studying. Figuring it out on his own.”
“That’s even more impressive,” she said, leaning against the counter. “You can’t teach that kind of instinct. Some people take classes for years and never get where he is.”
Miles stood as he looked toward his dad, then back at her. “Yeah, he’s gifted for sure.”
“What about you? Do you paint?”
He huffed a laugh. “Now that’s funny.”
“No creative side at all?”
“Nah, sports were more my thing—football, baseball, wrestling, track. Tried a little of everything.”
“Ah, so you were a jock,” she said, giving his arm a light slap. The moment her hand met solid muscle, something electric and entirely inconvenient ricocheted up her arm. “I mean, obviously, right? You’ve got the build for it.”
Miles chuckled. “Not like I use to. But years of sports, and then firefighting helped. Keeps you in decent shape.”
Decent?
“Firefighter?” She straightened. “Really?”
Something crossed his face—something she couldn’t quite name. But somehow, all at once, it said everything and nothing. “Used to be.”
The conversation stalled.
“Had a panic attack. Froze up. My partner had to pull me out.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He shrugged. “It’s okay. Resigned after and been doing odd jobs since—construction, dog walking, and yard work. Whatever I can find.”
“That why you’re back here?”
“Part of it.” His eyes went to Arthur then back to her. “He got diagnosed with Alzheimer’s a couple years back. Yesterday, his neighbor called me at two in the morning. Found him wandering the beach in his pajamas.” He tapped his thumb against his mug, once, twice, before exhaling. “Has his good days, good moments. And bad ones.”
She hesitated before resting a hand on his forearm. “That must be hard.”
His gaze flicked to where she touched him and he gave her a small, lopsided smile. “Yeah. But he still paints. Seems to help.”
She returned the smile, pulling her hand back. “He’s lucky to have you.”
“Just doing what I have to.”
The simplicity of his words sent a warmth through her bones.
For a beat, they just stood there. Wendi found herself studying the curve of Miles’ jaw. When she realized she was staring, she set her mug down. “So ... dog walking, huh?”
“What? That surprises you?”
“Just trying to picture you wrangling a pack of poodles.”
“Word on the street is that I’m the best dog walker east of the Mississippi,” he said, grinning now.
“Oh, is that so?”
“Definitely. Though, between us, I think they walked me more than I walked them.”
“Somehow I doubt that.” Wendi chuckled, shaking her head. “We should probably check on your dad.”
When they returned, Arthur was putting the final touches on a scene so striking that Wendi froze mid-step.
He’d captured the light filtering around storm clouds, with one patch of ocean lit up while everything else remained in shadow. A small boat sat on the bright water, its sails standing out against the darker waves around it. It seemed to move, as if the light was pulling it forward through the storm.
“Arthur ... Wow, this is gorgeous,” she said.
He looked up. “Not my best work. Nothing like my special project.”
“Special project?”
“Been working on it for months,” he said, cleaning his brush. “Most important painting I’ve ever done. Needs to be perfect.”
Wendi caught Miles’ raised brow.
News to him too.
“I plan to finish it tomorrow. I’ve got a nice frame for it too. It’ll be ready for the auction.”
Wendi smiled. “I can’t wait to see it.”
Arthur began cleaning his brush. “It’s been a lot of fun here today.”
“Yeah, today’s flown by,” Miles said, examining the painting.
“It really has.” Wendi’s smile faltered, slightly. “I was thinking about grabbing dinner—feel like joining?”
Arthur shooed them off. “Go on, you kids have fun. I’ve got a TV dinner and a painting to finish.”
“Dad, are you sure?”
“Go, enjoy yourselves,” Arthur said as he collected his supplies.
Miles turned to Wendi. “I need to get my dad set up at home. I could meet you there in probably half an hour?”
Just me and Miles?
A date?
No—well, maybe?
Just two ... friends? Acquaintances with ... potential?
Breathe, girl. It’s only dinner.
“Yeah, let’s do that,” she said, impressed by how casual her voice sounded despite her quickening pulse.
She watched as Miles helped gather his dad’s things, offering a few parting words and a brief smile to Arthur. As they headed for the door, Wendi released a sigh. There was something about watching Miles walk away that made her realize how much she wanted him to stay.
Max trotted alongside the guys, tail wagging with such hope that Wendi almost felt guilty keeping him from an adventure he clearly thought he deserved. “Max, I’m sorry, boy,” she said, scooping him up.
Miles grinned, reaching over to give Max a pat. “We’ll see you again soon.”
Arthur nodded at the dog. “You keep an eye on things here, okay?”
Once they’d left, she set Max down and blew out a breath. One thought hit: What the heck am I wearing?
Red top? Too formal.
Teal V-neck? Still too much.
Hmm. What if I wear it with jeans?
When was the last time she’d worried this much about what to wear? High school? College? That blind date a year ago that had ended with her eating dessert alone?
Ugh, why is this so hard?
Wait. Would changing be weird? Or would not changing be worse?
They’d already seen her in this outfit. Changing now would make it look like she was trying too hard—like it was a date. Was it? No, she was probably overthinking it. Again.
But she could at least freshen up her makeup. Or would that be too obvious? It was just a normal dinner. With a sweet man who’d left Atlanta to take care of his dad. With a man whose arms had no right being that distracting.
The door swung open.
Miles reappeared, one hand braced on the frame. “Sorry, where’d you say we’re meeting?”