The Romance Adventure

CHAPTER 1

Stepping back, I admire my masterpiece—if only I could say the same about my life. Having added all the finishing touches, with a curly flourish, I sign my name in the lower right-hand corner using black paint.

Isla Pratt.

If my mother could see me now, I imagine she’d be proud. Then again, this mural is a little too big to hang on the refrigerator, not that she ever did anything like that.

I put away all my paints and supplies, fold the ladder, and pick up the drop cloth.

Gina, the owner of the Clip and Curl, lets out a loud and happy squeal and then rushes toward me with her arms wide open.

“Oh, my hair dye! Isla, that is ah-may-zing. It gives me the zings.” She bunches up her hands under her chin, taking in the string of women in her family portrayed in sepia shades who styled hair before her, and from whom she inherited the shop.

Various hair styling items, both vintage and modern, surround the mural in bold tones, making the piece pop.

“I envisioned a way to honor my mother, grandmother, and aunties. And you kicked it up ten notches. Thank you.”

Unable to hold back my smile, I say, “Glad you like it.”

She wraps me in a hug and says, “I love it. Free haircuts and whatever else you want for life.”

I tug on the bottom of my long, brown hair streaked blonde by the sun. “I could probably use a deep conditioner. The mural I did on the old Vanderkirk building on Rutledge Ave did a number on my hair.”

“You are a Charleston gem, leaving your mark all over this city.”

“Well, it’s a start. I really appreciate you trusting me with this.”

“My customers are going to love it. I’d ask you to leave me some of your cards, but this is one giant calling card. I have your contact info, so if anyone asks, I’ll pass it along.”

“Thanks, Gina.”

I gather up some of my supplies to bring out to my truck. After painting all day, I’m parched. Thirsty, I consider stopping at the new smoothie and juice bar a few streets over, where I recently painted a “frame” on the wall around their menu consisting of pineapples and other fruit.

Like Gina, they offered free beverages and baked goods, but I don’t want to impose or expect anything.

Plus, I should save my money. It’s a new year and mural painting is my new business.

Then again, I made a New Year’s resolution to drink more smoothies and less soda.

More dreaming big and less living small.

Most importantly, more single life and fewer bad boyfriends—that made the list when a bomb exploded in my life on New Year’s Eve—and not the confetti kind at the stroke of midnight.

My other resolution is to grow my business and paint a mural a week, unless it’s a huge project like the one on the old Vanderkirk building.

I’d like to paint more murals so I can make more money, giving me some stability. The last few months have been rocky.

Thinking about my favorite blend from the Smoothery, I decide I should probably go make sure the paint didn’t peel off the wall. But I’ll pay for my strawberry shortcake smoothie no matter what they say. I’m not a freeloader, even if my pocketbook begs for bargains.

Before I bring my last load of supplies to the truck, I tell Gina I’m headed over to the smoothie shop and ask if she’d like me to bring her back one.

“Mind company? I could use some fresh air. I was doing inventory and skipped lunch. Even though we’re closed on Mondays, that doesn’t mean I’m not working.”

“Well, you have the most loyal customers in town, so keep at it.”

“I have the women who came before me to thank. I only wish my sisters could be a part of it.”

Sudden sadness washes over me. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know—”

Gina waves her hand dismissively as we turn the corner onto Bull Street. “Tina and Lina are still alive and kicking—like a pair of old donkeys. They’re twins and always treated me like Cinderella—think they’re too good to wash hair and do dye jobs. Do you have any sisters?”

“One, Bean. Well, her real name is Robyn.” I explain how, when I was little, saying the letter R was tricky for me, so Bean it was—and it stuck.

“Sounds like the two of you are close.”

“We are, were. I’d like to be. But she’s in Florida and I’m here. We don’t see each other nearly as much as we should. We both got busy with life, I guess. I last saw her over the summer.”

“I know how that is.”

We go into the Smoothery, and even though I don’t have to look at the menu, I do. The painting looks great, if I do say so myself.

Allie, the owner, comes out and sings my praises.

My cheeks warm because I’m not used to compliments.

No gold stars for work well done from Mom.

Our Aunt Olga, actually a great aunt from St. Petersburg—Russia, not the seaside city on the Gulf coast—raised us with an iron fist. Though I can thank my hippie mother for my penchant for the arts, which is about all she gave me.

In a way, Bean and I have always been each other’s cheerleaders.

I’ll call her later and see how her new shop is coming along.

When our aunt passed away, she left us with the apartment we grew up in outside New York City and a beach shack in Florida.

We sold the apartment and my funds went directly to debt.

Bean fell in love with the shack and had bookstore hearts in her eyes, so being responsible with money—unlike some people, ahem, me—she invested her savings in transforming the shack into a shop, complete with books and baked goods.

After painting all day, my stomach rumbles. Although I should eat the leftovers I have at home, the jumbo cinnamon crumble muffin with the buttery, crunchy top calls to me.

Isla, you worked so hard today. You deserve a treat. Pick me! Pick me!

I reach for it in the case when a large, masculine hand brushes mine.

I’m about to swat it away—my muffin!—when I discover it’s attached to a very attractive man.

Not just generically attractive or classically attractive.

Extremely attractive. Like he entered the attractive triathlon and came out with the gold medal.

He draws his hand away, but the sensation from where his fourth and fifth fingers brushed mine tingles. Like the New Year countdown clock, something ticks inside me.

Ten, nine, eight...

Swallowing, I have the vague awareness that after Dax ditched me on New Year’s Eve, I shouldn’t notice Mr. Muffin’s deep tan, athletic build, height, or strong shoulders. There is nothing doughy or soft about him.

“It’s like he walked off the perfect-specimen factory floor,” Gina whispers.

My cheeks warm another few degrees because she’s right about that.

“It’s the last one,” I say softly, captivated by his pewter eyes.

“You can have it.” His voice is deep, a bit gravelly.

“Are you sure?”

He winks. “I’ll get the blueberry instead.”

“Thank you. That’s sweet of you.”

He smirks.

The wink and smirk package is supreme. If Allie captured it and could somehow package it up, she’d be a bajillionaire and I’d overdose on smoothies and Mr. Muffins.

Something jabs me and I realize it’s Gina, breaking me out of my trance. Also, there’s a line forming behind us, so I struggle to bring myself back to the surface of real life and not deep under Mr. Muffin’s hypnotic gaze, complete with the wink-smirk combo.

Make it a double, please.

I get my smoothie order and before I remove the wrapper topper off the straw to take a sip, I break the muffin in half.

Strutting over to the guy like the considerate and concerned citizen I am—these muffins are the best and I won’t be able to sleep tonight if I don’t offer to share half with him—I juggle my smoothie cup, the bag, and the muffin.

His profile is a sculptor’s dream. I bet I could paint it.

He turns at my approach. I admire his strong forearms (no tattoos) and powerful quads.

He must participate in real-life sporting activities instead of video games, so the opposite of Dax, my ex.

Lost in the brushstrokes of his tall, lean lines, I slip on one of those wax grabber papers used for baked goods.

Hands full, I reach out for something to steady myself, at the same time Mr. Muffin reaches for me.

The muffin halves sail into the air and as I try to catch them—priorities!

—I forget the smoothie in my other hand, and like the non-professional clown that I am, I try to juggle them and fail.

But because his hands are involved in saving me and the muffin pieces, once more, they brush.

Instead of tingling this time, his fingers knock into my smoothie cup.

In slow motion, the contents erupt like a fruity volcano, spewing all over me… and him.

Both halves of the muffin plop onto the floor in a soggy smoothie mess along with my dignity.

This goes down in the top ten worst moments of my life. Because Mr. Muffin is so tall, the pink smoothie spared him from the shoulders up, but covers his blue T-shirt. As for me, the strawberry shortcake flavor matches my face.

Gina and Allie hurry over with towels and fuss about cleaning us off—him, mostly. Gina is not shy about handling his pectoral and abdominal areas.

The guy’s smolder turns into a scowl, mostly aimed at me.

“I am so sorry. I was coming over to offer you half of the muffin and—” and talking myself out of giving him my number. This is what I get for not sticking to my New Year’s resolution. I was doing so well, too.

Mr. Muffin’s pewter eyes scan me, deepening my blush. “You have some—on your face.” Taking a towel from Gina, he wipes the remains of the smoothie from his shirt.

And there I thought this was going to be one of those movie moments when he’d tenderly wipe the smoothie off my cheek and we’d gaze longingly into each other’s eyes before moving closer and... Instead, I dab it, continuing to apologize profusely.

“Still there,” he says, pointing.

I pat the spot. “It’s not strawberry shortcake smoothie, it’s paint.” I’m about to explain how I did the mural here and at Gina’s shop when he scans the three of us women, probably decides we’re far more chaos than we’re worth, and strides out of the Smoothery.

“Wait. I owe you a shirt. What’s your name? Your number?” But the door closes behind the guy’s back.

And I feel anything but smooth.