Fifteen
Winter
I’ve been so deep into writing that I didn’t realize how late it was until I heard the truck pulling into the driveway. Quickly, I save my new work and shut my laptop. Despite growing used to the sound over the past week, I run to the window to double-check that it’s Saint.
Peeking through the blinds, I see him shut the truck door and head toward the house with a large brown bag in his arms.
His hands look full, so I rush to the door and open it for him. Unable to resist, I kiss him as soon as he enters. The paper bag is accidentally squashed a little in the process, but it’s okay.
“What’d you bring?” I ask after the kiss ends.
“I stopped and picked up your favorite.” He grins and shows me the contents. Containers from my favorite Chinese restaurant in town. It’s not nearly as fancy as the places in New York City, but I’d choose small-town Chinese food with Saint over a luxury meal alone any day.
“Did you get sweet and sour?” I raise a brow.
“Of course. Do you think I’m an amateur?” he asks in mock offense.
“Then what are we waiting for?” I hook an arm into the crook of his elbow and drag him to the kitchen, where we dig into the ‘date night special’ he brought us. It came with enough sweet and sour chicken for two, fried rice, spring rolls, an order of crab Rangoon, and fortune cookies.
A week ago, when Saint offered his home as my writing oasis, I had been skeptical. However, on the first day I spent here, I was able to write for the first time since returning to Colorado. Thinking it might be a fluke, I came back for a second time. But each day I’ve been highly productive.
The other perk has been that Saint has come directly here after he’s done with work for the day, either bringing dinner with him or cooking for me.
At first, eating together, just the two of us, felt a little weird. But it’s been nice, and I’ve decided I enjoy the stolen moments together.
My family hasn’t yet asked me where I go every day, and I haven’t volunteered the information. In the mornings, I leave at the same time as Saint, and I think my mom assumes I’m going with him.
With the ornament shop closed for the season, Saint has been working on his art commissions. He’s recently let me see several of his current projects, and he’s a phenomenal artist. The passion and skill come through in every piece he works on.
“How’s the painting for the Jefferys coming along?” I ask, knowing that was the one he planned to work on today.
“Finished!” He beams. “Do you want to go see it when we’re done with dinner?”
I smile at the suggestion. I love seeing his work. “Absolutely!”
***
It doesn’t take long for us to finish eating, and then Saint drives us to the studio in his truck.
On the way there, I can’t stop sneaking looks at him across the cab.
His large, calloused hands glide along the wheel on turns and the veins in his forearms. Going on drives so I can drool over him might become one of my new favorite pastimes.
Once we’re parked, he lets us into the dark shop. He turns on his phone’s flashlight and leads me to the studio.
The room offers several options for lighting. Instead of turning on the main overhead light, he turns on the one that looks like a spotlight above his easel.
When the painting is illuminated, I gasp at its stunning beauty. He perfectly captured a grassy field at golden hour. It almost feels like looking at a photograph rather than a painting.
“Wow, Saint! This is beautiful.”
He grins from ear to ear. “You haven’t even seen the best part yet.”
The statement confuses me, and that confusion only grows when he turns off the spotlight, leaving us in the dark momentarily. A blacklight turns on instead and I know exactly what he means. I can’t hold back a soul-deep laugh.
What was once a peaceful field at sunset now features a cow being abducted by an alien spaceship!
Through tears of laughter, I ask him, “What in the world?”
He’s chuckling too as he responds, “They wanted a secondary painting that would only show in blacklight, and they gave me free rein in designing it. I decided to make it fun.” He shrugs.
“Mission accomplished,” I confirm. “Truly, I’m amazed at what you’ve done. I couldn’t imagine making something like this.”
He glances at me for a moment. “I have an idea.”
The glint in his eyes tells me whatever he’s planning is probably trouble. I can’t help but narrow my eyes in suspicion. “What idea?”
He doesn’t answer my question, but he clears off a counter before telling me to sit there. My cursed short legs make it difficult to hop up, and after a few attempts, Saint takes pity on me and lifts me.
He brings over a water-based white paint and a skinny brush. After putting a glob of white paint on the palette, he instructs me to take off my sweater.
“Why?” I ask indignantly.
“Just do it.” He urges once again, stubbornly choosing not to answer.
I sigh before giving in, but I can tell he’s surprised when I remove it. He gulps as he examines me. Usually, I’d have a T-shirt or undershirt of some kind, but not today. When it’s off, all that remains is a black lace bra that I know makes my boobs look fantastic.
He shakes his head and appears to come out of his stupor.
He dips the brush into the paint and then instructs me to move my hair off my shoulder.
I do, and he brings his left hand to my neck.
The calloused skin of his fingers caresses me there before he lightly collars my throat.
I know it’s not meant to be more than it is, but I can’t help the tingles that spread throughout my body at the dominant posture.
There’s a twinkle in his hazel eyes as he brings the brush to my flesh.
The first few strokes, I hold in my response to the feeling, but when I can’t keep it in anymore, I burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, that tickles so much.”
He waits for me to stop my laughing fit before going back to creating delicate strokes on my skin.
Maybe about thirty minutes later, he declares he’s done and takes a picture with his phone.
“My most beautiful creation yet,” he says in a rough voice before showing me.
“Wow,” I breathe out as I flip through the photos he took. The white paint glows under the blacklight, flowers showing brightly all over my skin. It looks so beautiful that it leaves me speechless.
Then he says, “Of course it was easy with such an exquisite canvas.”
Later, I might find the statement cheesy, but in the moment, it makes my heart flutter.
Grabbing hold of the material of his shirt, I drag him closer to me. Once he’s standing between my legs, I wrap them around him and kiss him hard.
It’s different than the greeting kiss earlier, which was a little affectionate peck. This kiss is full of heat and intensity as he meets my fire and pours gasoline on it. Our lips slide and our tongues brush against each other in a warm, languid embrace.
He groans deeply when I nip his bottom lip.
My hand works its way under his shirt, up the silky skin of his chest covered in a sprinkling of hair. He’s solid and warm under my touch. I can’t help the moan that escapes me. My mind is made up already. I want to take this further. No more waiting.
Before we escalate things, my phone rings. My purse is across the room, and there’s no way I’m stopping now to check it.
“Voicemail will get it,” I tell him, running my hands up the taut muscles of his back. How does an artist build such honed muscles?
My ringtone ends, but then Saint’s phone rings too. Unfortunately, his phone is on the counter beside me, and my mom’s name flashes at us.
I wonder if it was my mom who called me too. I look at Saint with scrunched brows, and he seems to pick up on the unasked question.
He clears his throat before answering. He tries for cool and casual, but he still doesn’t sound like his usual self.
I can’t hear anything my mom says to him, but from the way he whips his head in my direction, I can tell it’s nothing good.
“We’re in town. We’ll head there now.” There’s a pause as he listens to her speak, and then he replies, “See you soon.”
After he’s hung up, he quickly pulls my sweater over my head and helps me down from the counter. “We have to go.”