Chapter Two
Stunned, Willow stared at the painting she’d just finished. The plan had been to paint one more winter landscape, so how did this happen?
This morning she’d woken up around four with an overwhelming urge to paint.
She was still in her pajamas; she hadn’t even changed.
She remembered picking up her brush, staring at the different tubes of paint, deciding what she would use.
After that, everything was a blur. And now this was the end result.
The style of painting she was known for was called Open Impressionism.
The landscapes she created were vibrant, done with oil paint and a brush.
This particular style of painting relied on color to portray emotion and thick oil paint strokes to create movement.
Separated brush strokes gave her paintings the stained-glass effect she preferred.
So where on earth did this painting come from?
Not only was it not her usually subject matter, but she’d somehow also changed her style.
The hues she’d used were much softer, the bold strokes replaced by lighter strokes of her brush, creating something much more ethereal than she’d ever done before.
Slowly inhaling and exhaling, she tried to calm the storm inside her. She stepped back, tried a different perspective. Okay, maybe she was overreacting. The background was still a beautiful winter Montana landscape. The only difference was it wasn’t the focus point of the painting. Yet.
Well, she simply couldn’t have it. It shouldn’t be difficult to change the cowboy on his horse dominating the painting at the moment, though.
Groaning, she rubbed her face. The problem was, it wasn’t just any cowboy, it was a very particular cowboy—Hunter-freaking-Grant, no less.
It was probably all those freaking photos she’d taken of him without realizing it. The man was constantly on her mind, damn it.
Her phone bleeped and she quickly turned the easel around. Nobody was going to see this before she’d changed it. Ever.
For the first time she noticed the time. Oh goodness, the stroll, her mom! Groaning, she opened Cooper’s text. She’d completely forgotten to talk to her brothers about getting a lift into Marietta to attend the stroll. Frowning, she read Cooper message.
“We’re ready to leave. You?”
Look at her—paint stains everywhere, her hair in a messy bun and not like those sexy ones you saw online. Just really, really messy and covered in paint. Sprinting to her room, she texted Cooper.
“I’ll come on my own.”
Throwing down the phone on the bed, she rushed to the bathroom. Her mom would have a fit if she was late, but that couldn’t be helped.
In the shower, she lifted her face toward the falling water. Maybe it wasn’t Hunter and his horse she’d painted, maybe it was just her imagination because he was constantly on her mind.
Okay, the horse she’d painted was a grey but just because Hunter’s horse was the same color, it didn’t mean she’d painted him. Besides you couldn’t really make out the face beneath the big cowboy hat, could you? Even though the hat was similar to Hunter’s it wasn’t to say …
Groaning, she quickly washed her paint-streaked hair. She didn’t have time to dry it, but at least it would be clean.
*
Hunter waited in his truck, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
Why the hell had he agreed to pick up Willow?
He remembered he’d opened his mouth with the distinct notion to refuse Cooper’s request to bring Willow to the stroll tonight, but somehow, the words that had left his mouth were something totally different, and he’d found himself agreeing to do just that.
Hadn’t he told himself just the previous morning to stay as far away from her as far as possible? Yet here he was, waiting for her, his heart hammering away.
The front door opened. He got out of his truck. Willow ran down the steps before she saw him.
“What are you doing here?” she snapped.
“Cooper asked me. He texted you, he said.” He turned around and walked to the other side of his truck. “Come on, we’re wasting time.”
“I’ll take my own truck, thank you.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
She inhaled sharply. “I don’t ever let anyone tell me what to do. I have three brothers thank you very much, I don’t want another one.”
“Good, because I’m not your brother.” Damn it, he shouldn’t have said that. “Look, I’m not happy about this either, but I’ve agreed to take you. Just get in the damn truck, please?”
For another minute she glared at him before she stomped to the truck. He opened the door for her.
“I’ve been opening doors for myself since I was two,” she muttered as she got in.
“So stop behaving like a two-year-old.”
Her head whipped around and the beanie covering her hair, fell off. Wet strands of hair cascaded over her shoulders.
Touching her hair, he frowned. “Your hair is wet, you can’t go anywhere like this, you’ll catch a cold.”
“Not your problem.” Grabbing the beanie, she aimed to put it over her hair again, but he’d had enough.
“Damn it, Willow,” he growled before he picked her up.
“Put me down,” she cried, wiggling to be set free.
Strengthening his hold on her, he walked back to her front door. “Your brothers will have my hide if you get ill. Dry your hair, I’ll wait.” He put her kicking body down gently.
“You … I don’t even know what to say to you!”
“Good, now go and dry your hair.”
Without saying a word, she opened her door and walked inside. “You can go, I’m going to bed.”
He quickly stepped inside before she could close the door. “I’ve been asked to bring you to the stroll tonight and that’s what I’ll do. Either you dry your hair, or I’ll do it for you.”
A light he’d never seen before, flitted in her eyes. “You wanna dry my hair?” She took off her coat and pulled her sweater over her head.
“That’s not what I said …”
But even before he dropped his jacket on the closest chair, she’d grabbed his arm and was pulling him after her. “That was exactly what you’ve said. It’s a tedious job and by the sound of it, one you’ve done before.”
He just had time to get a glimpse of the back of an easel in what was probably her studio before she’d dragged him out of the living room toward what he assumed was her bedroom.
Surprised, he took in the soft grey and pink colors of the room, creating a distinctly feminine room. What exactly he’d expected he didn’t know, but it wasn’t this. The bed was rumpled, a hot red bra lying at the bottom. His breath hitched, his blood simmered.
Scooping it up, Willow tossed it in a drawer.
She quickly moved toward the chair in front of a mirror. “Come on,” she motioned as he stood in the doorway. “Just remember this was your idea.” As she sat down, she picked up a brush and the hair dryer.
Gnashing his teeth, he slowly approached her.
This was such a bad idea. He should’ve left her here and drove into town by himself.
That would’ve been the more sensible thing to do.
Instead, here he was, in her bedroom of all places about to dry her hair, touch her, and that damn red bra was all he could think about.
Wordlessly she handed him the brush and the dryer. He was a dead man.
Yes, he’d done this before, but it had been for his sister. She’d asked him a few times to help her, but he’d never done it for any other woman.
Drying Willow Weston’s hair in her bedroom when his body was on fire, there was no one else around, was possibly one of the stupidest things he’d ever done. It was a whole different experience than when he dried his sister’s hair.
Gnashing his teeth, he put the brush down. Her hair was sopping wet, he’d had to dry it first before he could attempt to brush it.
Lifting the wet strands with his one hand, he switched on the hair dryer. Her hair was thick, it took a while to dry. Forcing himself to keep his eyes on the golden-brown strands and not meet her eyes in the mirror, he ran his fingers through the silky tresses as he dried it.
Problem was, what he did see from this angle, had him just about drooling. The neckline of the blue top she wore was wide, leaving quite a bit of her skin bare. His eyes kept straying to the naked slope of her shoulder and the soft curve of her cleavage noticeable while standing behind her.
Long after her hair was quite dry, he still kept running the softness through his fingers.
Finally, his body humming, his jeans way too tight, he bent forward to pick up the brush and put the hair dryer down.
As he moved back again, his eyes met hers in the mirror.
Around them, all sorts of strange vibrations floated around in the quiet room.
She crossed her arms, a movement that drew his eyes downward. That was when he noticed what she was trying to hide—the hard points of her nipples straining against the soft material of her top.
“Damn, Willow …” he growled.
Jumping up, she grabbed the brush from his hands. “Thank you, it’s fine. I’ll be out in a minute.”
For another moment he stared at her mouth, at the determined lift of her chin before he turned and walked away. He couldn’t remember ever wanting to kiss anyone as badly as he’d wanted to kiss Willow Weston at that moment.
Blindly, he stumbled toward the living room. Inhaling deeply, he tried to rein in his galloping libido. He began pacing, replaying every moment of the past few minutes.
Damn it, this wasn’t helping. Looking around wildly, he noticed her studio again.
Before he could stop himself, he was inside.
A few paintings were placed around the walls of the room, all the typical, beautiful Montana landscapes she was known for.
Like a lovesick teenager, he went online right after he’d seen her the first time to find out as much about her as he could.
He walked around the easel to look at the painting. His heart tripped and for a second, he could’ve sworn it had stopped.
A sound inside the house finally penetrated his befuddled thoughts. Turning away, he quickly moved back to the living room.
He was at the front door when he heard Willow behind him.
“Let’s go.”
He thought it wise not to say anything about the painting right away. Opening the front door, he waited for her to leave before he followed her.
Before he’d reached his truck, she was already inside.
At some point, she’d have to explain about the damn painting.
*
It was difficult to breathe. The truck was big, the inside quite spacious but with every mile closer to Marietta, it seemed to shrink until all Willow was aware of was the beating of her heart, Hunter’s musky scent, his uneven breathing, and the heat radiating from his body. Or was it her body?
She couldn’t settle and kept moving in an effort to break the strange mood inside the truck. Hunter hadn’t said a word since they’d left and for the life of her, she couldn’t think of anything to say either.
Of course she shouldn’t have demanded he dry her hair.
At that moment she’d just been so fed up with another man thinking he knew what was best for her.
She also didn’t want him wandering into her studio.
It was only when she’d seen the red bra lying on her bed, she’d realized how stupid she’d been.
Hunter Grant, the cowboy she’d been having X-rated dreams about for months, was in her room.
Backing down then, however, wasn’t an option.
How she was ever going to sleep again, she had no idea. The feeling of those big hands, his fingers gently running through her hair, his warm body standing right behind her, those blue eyes watching her hardened nipples wasn’t something to forget easily.
Shifting restlessly, she tried to get comfortable.
A big hand covered hers. “Damn it, Willow, please sit still, you’re killing me.”
She tried to remove his hand, but he laced his fingers with hers and put their hands on his leg. “What … what are you talking about?”
Blue eyes locked with hers before he turned his attention to the road again. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Well, I don’t.” Again, she tried to remove her hand from his, but he caught it again, lifting it up to his mouth. Warm lips touched her skin, heating her blood in seconds.
“You still wanna tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about?”
Her mouth was so dry, she had to swallow a few times before she could speak. “You shouldn’t have done that.” She was going for sounding assertive, instead the husky words hanging between them were anything but.
Fortunately, they’d reached Crawford Park where the courthouse was situated. This time when she pulled at her hand, Hunter let her go.
He finally found an empty spot and parked his truck. “Whenever you’re ready, you can tell me about your latest painting.”
He’d gotten out of his truck and had opened her door while she was still trying to catch her breath.
“I can’t believe you were snooping around in my house!” Ignoring his hand, she clambered down and moved toward the courthouse. “You had no right to look at my work in progress. Who does that?”
“We should talk about it.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. It’s not finished. I’m going to change the whole thing.”
“Why?”
“It’s not what I do. I’m landscape artist.”
“The cowboy in the painting, is me, isn’t it?”
“Willow!”
It was her mother’s voice, thank goodness. Looking around, she spotted her mom and Janice waving. “Thanks, Mom,” she muttered under her breath. She’d never been so glad to see her.
“Thanks for the lift,” she called over her shoulder.
“Happy to take you home whenever you want to leave.”
“Don’t worry about me.” She left quickly, rushing toward her mom and Janice, but he kept by her side, steering her through the crowd with a hand protectively at her back.
As usual, just about the whole town had rocked up for the stroll.
Suddenly, she wanted to cry. Hunter Grant was so exactly the kind of man she could’ve fallen for if she were the falling-in-love kind—caring, protective, sweet.
As it was, allowing someone else into her life, opening her up to experience one more person’s pain and worries, was simply not something she could ever allow.
She’d made peace long ago with the fact she’d was never going to be anyone’s bride.
Growing old without a partner wasn’t that bad, more and more women were apparently opting to do that these days.
Living on the ranch fortunately meant she’d never be completely alone.
She had her brothers and their families, that was more than many other people had.
So why did she have a hole where her heart was supposed to be and why could she feel the warmth of Hunter’s hand at her back right down to the soles of her feet?
Quickly, she moved away from him and slipped through the crowd until she reached her mom.