by Mignon Mykel
I see it every time they look at me. Hear it every time they pick apart my suggestions. Feel it every time I walk into a room and conversation dries up faster than quick-set nail polish.
Of course, that last one probably has something to do with my father.
Still, I’m proud of Indie Week. I got the idea from Restaurant Week, but instead of limiting participation to food service, all of Beaumont’s small businesses were invited to participate. The event allows residents to patronize a different small business each day of the week for one low price, enjoying hometown dining, arts and crafts lessons, musical workshops, theater, fitness classes, and other local services without making the trek to Boulder.
It’s kind of brilliant if I do say so myself.
Or, it will be, as long as nothing goes wrong.
“That was some entrance. If I’d known there was going to be a show, I would’ve taken a seat up front.”
I straighten and glance over at Mr. Magnanimous, fully prepared to tell him what he can do with his front-row seat. But just as I open my mouth to speak, déjà vu throat punches me and the words die on my lips.
Wesley freaking Kaplan.
I’d know that full-lipped smirk anywhere. How could I possibly forget it when—lucky me—alphabetical seating charts were all the rage in high school? I spent four years sitting in front of Wes. Four years of him flicking my ponytail and borrowing pencils and being a general pain in the ass.
The guy didn’t take anything seriously and from the looks of it, not much has changed.
His dark hair is longer and shaggier, spilling over his forehead, but hey, at least he’s not rocking a man bun, so bonus points for that, I guess. He’s sporting a deep tan that accentuates his high cheekbones and square jaw and the sleeves of his Patagonia sweatshirt—which probably cost more than my entire outfit—are rolled up to reveal muscular forearms. One of which is inked with a sleeve of trees and mountains that disappear under the blue fabric near his elbow. It’s kind of sexy and all of a sudden my ovaries are taking notice, heat pooling low in my belly.
Okay. So maybe some things have changed because that’s never happened before.
Shit. I cannot be attracted to Wes Kaplan. Just…no.
“Is this your first time doing the whole paint-and-sip thing?” he asks, dark eyes dancing with laughter, no doubt at my expense.
I guess I can’t blame him since I am kind of staring. “Yeah. You?”
“Same.” He rakes a hand through his thick hair, shoving it back off his forehead for all the good it does. “My mom’s idea. I guess she thought this whole Indie Week thing would be a good distraction.”
Distraction from what? Nope. Not my business.
“How sweet.” I arch a brow, lips curving in a saccharine smile. “A mama’s boy.”
“Not quite,” he says, shaking his head, “but if you met my mother, you’d understand. I’m pretty sure the word no isn’t in her vocabulary.”
Joke’s on him. I have met his mom. In fact, she’s the president of the COC, so, yeah, I know exactly how immovable she can be when she puts her mind to something.
Not that I’d admit it to Wes.
“Funny, you don’t strike me as the kind of guy to bow to authority.”
Quite the opposite since everything about him from his unruly hair to his dusty trail shoes screams wild and free.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I see you’ve given this some thought.”
“Don’t get too excited.” I shrug, reaching for indifference. The guy’s in serious need of an ego check and I’m happy to oblige. Especially since it’s clear he doesn’t recognize me. I can’t decide if I should be flattered or offended. “You’re sitting in the back row, aka slacker row. It’s kind of obvious.”
That damn smirk is back again. “Yeah, and I’m not alone, am I?”
“Not like I had a choice.” I scan the studio and my heart does a little happy dance. During planning, Autumn said she hadn’t sold out a class in months, but now, thanks to Indie Week, she’s got a full house.
“Right,” he says, nodding slowly. “Because you were late. Classic slacker move.”
He’d know. Back in school, Wes was always ditching to go climb or hang out or whatever it was the popular kids did when they were flaunting their entitlement. I never had that luxury. I’d needed a perfect record and all the recommendations I could scrape together for scholarship applications.
“It wasn’t my fault I was late,” I retort, compelled to defend myself. Which is ridiculous. I’m a grown-ass woman. I don’t owe Wes or anyone else an explanation. Problem is, when you live in a small town, it’s hard to break out of your role once you’ve been cast and I’ve been on the defensive for as long as I can remember.
“Riiight.” He drags the word out, his voice a quiet rumble that reverberates through the space between us, leaving goose bumps in its wake. My pulse quickens, which is stupid because this is Wes. Jerk. Slacker. So not my type. Granted, it’s been a while since I’ve had sex, but I’m not that hard up—am I? “Let me guess, you’re one of those type-A people who’s always late because they think they can get just one more thing done? I’ll bet you’ve got a to-do list a mile long in that bag of yours,” he says, gesturing to my purse.
I grit my teeth. So what if I like lists? And order? And getting stuff done? It sure as hell beats gliding through life with zero purpose.
Before I can respond, Autumn’s voice cuts through the silence. “Is there a question in the back?”
The entire class turns to stare at us. Flames blaze across my cheeks and now my heart’s racing for an entirely different reason.
If the floor could just swallow me whole now, that’d be great, thanks.
I don’t know who I’m talking to, but for once the universe takes pity on me and Wes responds.
“No question.” He flashes Autumn a winning smile, one that’s probably gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count. “I was just saying how excited I am to get started.”
The ass actually turns to me and winks, like we’re sharing a private joke. Who the hell winks anymore? It’s outdated. And gross. And…surprisingly charming. Wes’s eyes go all crinkly around the corners and when he opens them again, I notice the flecks of gold lining his umber irises. My traitorous heart gives an involuntary flutter and a warning alarm shrieks inside my head.
I need to shut this conversation down. Because not only is Wes the exact opposite of everything I look for in a guy—safe, steady, responsible—his mother is my boss. And I’m pretty sure Maggie Kaplan wouldn’t want her son slumming with me.
The COC may have given me a job, but in Beaumont, I’ll always be the Jones girl.
Wes
I stare at the blob of yellow paint sliding down my canvas and mumble a few choice words under my breath. My painting looks nothing like the instructor’s. I mean, I wasn’t expecting a Monet, but it’s pretty abysmal. I rinse my brush and glance around, scoping out my classmates’ work. Which turns out to be a terrible idea because it just confirms what I already know. My painting is the worst in the class. Thankfully, here in the back row, no one else can see it.
No one but the blonde who’s been pretending to ignore me for the last hour.
She’s doing her best to act like I don’t exist, going so far as to pretend she can’t hear me even though we’re only sitting a few feet apart. But the thing is, I catch her watching me when she thinks I’m not paying attention. I don’t know what her deal is, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to find out.
And since my painting is a bust, why wait?
“If you’re going to stare,” I say, lifting my canvas from the easel and holding it out for inspection, “you might as well give your opinion. What do you think?”
She stiffens, but her attention remains on her painting. “Don’t quit your day job.”
“No kidding.” I drop the canvas back on the easel unceremoniously. “If you were looking over here for
tips, you’re looking in the wrong place.”
She gives a haughty little snort and her reply comes, whip sharp. “Trust me. I know better than to ask you for help.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, indignation stirring in my gut. I mean, she’s not wrong about my painting skills, but what’s with the attitude?
She turns to face me, one delicate eyebrow arched. “It means I haven’t forgotten how you always wanted to copy my homework or how you used to borrow my pencils and never give them back, Wes Kaplan.”
The reply catches me off guard because obviously I’ve missed something important, like the fact that we know each other. I narrow my eyes, studying her more closely. I’ve only ever known one girl who could rock such a judgmental eyebrow. “Holy shit. Sky? You look…different.”
Real smooth, Captain Obvious.
Sky rolls her eyes, but a slow flush spreads across her cheeks. Just like the old days. “Of course I look different. It’s been five years since graduation, Wes.”
She says my name with a mix of exasperation and affection. Sure, Sky was always busting my balls about being a pain in her ass, but I don’t think she ever really meant it. Except for when I got bored in class and flicked her ponytail. Then she’d turn around and scold me with that sassy little mouth of hers. Not gonna lie, I lived for those moments.
“You look great,” I say, correcting myself. And it’s true. Gone is the too severe ponytail, the thrift-store jeans, and the thick black glasses that made her look like a librarian in training.
Hell, it’s no wonder I didn’t recognize her.
Sidestepping the compliment, Sky gestures to my painting. “Since art’s obviously not your thing, what are you really doing here? You mentioned something about a distraction?”
I shrug and do a little sidestep of my own. No way am I going to bitch about the Olympics being delayed to Sky. Talk about first world problems. “Supporting the local economy. You?”
“Same.” She glances back at her painting, which is better than mine, but not by much. Seriously, we must be the two most artistically challenged people in all of Beaumont. “I’m the Director of Marketing and Events for the Chamber of Commerce.”
A laugh escapes before I can clamp my mouth shut.
Sky jams her paintbrush in the water cup and turns back to me with narrowed eyes. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” I say, throwing up my hands. “It’s just… Aren’t you a little young for a director role?”
She doesn’t reply, just sniffs and lifts her chin.
“What? No one else wanted the job?” I ask, barely able to contain my laughter. It’s not a dig at Sky, although I’m not sure she gets that. It’s just, my mother can be intense and though I’d never voice it aloud, I doubt the Beaumont COC pay is commensurate with the aggravation level.
“I prefer to think no one else could match my creative talent and enthusiasm,” Sky retorts coolly, not missing a beat.
I shake my head in wonder. Despite all the physical changes—which I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about—she’s still the same snarky spitfire I remember from high school. “Same old Sky.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demands, throwing my earlier question back at me. Cool indignation lights her eyes and I have to admit, I’m here for it. This is the most fun I’ve had with two feet planted firmly on the ground in months.
Not exactly a ringing endorsement for my bachelor lifestyle, but there you have it.
“You always did like a pet project.” I stretch my legs into the narrow aisle. “Like that time you campaigned to change the school mascot to the Beaumont Bison.”
“With good reason,” she says, tone ripe with passion. “The Pioneer moniker was seriously offensive.”
“I don’t disagree. If memory serves, I was the first person to sign your petition.”
“Yeah.” She shoots me a pointed look. “With a pencil you borrowed and never gave back.”
“Jesus, Sky. Hold a grudge much?” I ask, only half joking. Because how does she even remember that? “And against one of your biggest supporters, nonetheless. See if I help you ever again.”
“Somehow, I think I’ll survive.” She rolls her eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “In fact, I’d probably be better off because I seem to recall my biggest supporter and his friends filling my little library senior project with Sports Illustrated Swimsuit editions.”
Damn, the woman has a good memory. I’d forgotten all about that prank. It wasn’t my idea, but I might’ve contributed an issue or five to the cause.
“Hey, if you want to judge people for what they read, by all means,” I say, going on the offensive. “But I support literacy in all its forms. I’d never shame someone else’s choice of reading material.”
Her eyebrow shoots up again, but this time it seems to hold an air of approval. “Fair enough.”
“Ho-ly shit. Did the brilliant Skylar Jones just agree with me?” I clasp my hands to my chest, feigning shock. “My life is complete.”
She tosses her hair over her shoulder and shrugs. “It was bound to happen eventually. I mean, even you can’t be wrong one hundred percent of the time, right?”
I smirk. Mostly because I know it annoys the hell out of her. “You know, if things don’t work out at the COC, you could take all these toasty little insults and become a professional roaster.”
“Very funny. I’ll have you know things at the COC are going just fine. And they’ll be even better once I show the board the results of Indie Week.”
This is Sky’s event? I should’ve realized it sooner, because, yeah, Director of Marketing and Events, but I was kind of sidetracked by all that sexy snark.
I glance around the studio. The room isn’t just filled to capacity. It’s filled with smiling faces. “From where I’m sitting, the event looks like a success. Congratulations.”
A smile flashes across her lips, but it’s gone in an instant. If I hadn’t seen that radiant look once before, I’d think I imagined it. But I have seen it before and I know it’s the pride of a job well done.
“You might want to hold the applause. I need six more just like it before I can celebrate,” she says wryly. “It’ll take more than a single night to impress your mother.”
No shit. The woman’s expectations are sky-high. Not unlike my own.
“Speaking of my mother. Did she send you to spy on me tonight?”
I wouldn’t put it past her. Not that I mind Sky’s company—if I’ve got to have a babysitter, I can’t imagine a better one—but it’s the principle of the thing. I’m an extreme athlete for fuck’s sake. I’ve climbed some of the most iconic routes and boulders in the world. If I can’t handle a solo night at a small-town art studio, I’m well and truly screwed.
“No.” She responds automatically, but then seems to consider the question more carefully, worrying her bottom lip. The soft flesh plumps around her teeth and my cock stirs with interest as I imagine sucking on that full lip. “You know, now that you mention it, I was planning to try a yoga class tonight, but your mom insisted I change my plans at the last minute. I’m sure it was just a coincidence though.”
And that, ladies and gentleman, is how you kill a boner.
It’s my own fault for asking the question in the first place, but damn. How was I supposed to know she was going to do that thing with her lip?
The instructor tells us to sign and date our paintings and I watch as Sky paints her name in the lower corner of the canvas with elaborate brushstrokes. When she’s done, she turns to me, her gaze bouncing from my unsigned canvas to my idle hands.
“Aren’t you going to sign yours?” She offers me her brush. “Use this one. It’s got a fine tip.”
I snort and shake my head. “Are you serious? I’m not taking this home with me. It’s terrible.”
The corner of her mouth quivers, but she manages to hold off a laugh. Just barely. “It has character. You can’t just leave it here. You hav
e to save it to remember your first—”
“And last.”
“Spritz & Splatter,” she finishes, ignoring my interruption.
She grabs my wrist and thrusts the brush into my hand. Her touch is firm, but gentle, and it’s impossible to ignore the flash of heat that passes between us as her fingers brush against mine. Where my hands are hard and rough, hers are soft and delicate. It’s a stark reminder of just how different we are. I should break contact—that would be the smart move—but when our eyes meet, all I see are summer skies. How the hell did I sit behind this girl for four years without noticing those eyes? They’re beautiful. Bright and clear and warm.
And I’ll be damned if I’m going to wait another five years to see them again.
Skylar
Wes’s calloused fingers scrape against my own and awareness sizzles across my skin like a summer storm. Fierce. Unexpected. Inevitable. His eyes lock on mine, desire churning in their dark depths and for a second, I want to lose myself in that darkness. It would be so easy to let go—just for the night—but I jerk my hand back before my belly can get in on the action. This is no time for swooning.
I’m on the coc—clock. I’m on the clock.
Freudian slip, much?
Whatever. Even if I wasn’t working, I don’t have the luxury of indulging in frivolous hookups. Not in Beaumont where gossip spreads faster than pollen on the wind. Besides, I’ve got enough on my plate with the COC, Indie Week, and keeping my father out of trouble. The sad truth is, I’m too goddamn exhausted for a hookup.
Especially one that involves Wes Kaplan.
I slide off the stool, careful not to put weight on the heel of my broken sandal, and scoop my bag up off the floor. “Well, this has been fun, but I need to get home. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.” The excuse tumbles from my lips easily enough, though I can’t meet Wes’s intense stare. If I do, there’s a good chance my resolve will go right out the window. So, yeah, like the coward I am, I focus on the colorful tapestry hanging above his head. “See you around.”
