Just What I Needed

by Lorelei James

  Since she hadn’t packed anything but art supplies in her messenger bag, she raided my closet for loungewear, picking a Flint & Lund T-shirt and a baggy pair of sweatpants.

  Once she was coherent, I gave her a brief tour of the upstairs. Four bedrooms, two bathrooms, plus my master bedroom and bath. She wandered into the large alcove at the top of the stairs but didn’t comment on the utter lack of furniture.

  Trinity’s focus bounced between the top of the window and the blank wall across from it.

  “What’s going on in that creative head of yours?”

  “This cool old window . . . they don’t make them like this anymore. The upper section should be stained glass. It’d throw colors and patterns across the opposite wall, creating its own art.”

  “Do you work in stained glass?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve blown glass.” She smirked at me over the rim of her coffee cup. “Let’s pretend both your big and little heads didn’t get stuck on the word ‘blown.’ I love shaping molten sections of glass into objects. But soldering cut pieces of glass together is more tedious than putting together a jigsaw puzzle.”

  “So I couldn’t commission you to make a stained-glass window for me?”

  “I’ll think about it.” She walked past the last bedroom door I’d left open a crack and peeked inside. “This room looks occupied.”

  “It’s my grandpa Jensen’s room when he comes over from Sweden.”

  “He stays with you and not with his daughter?”

  “Grandpa likes to tag along with me to job sites. He’d be bored sitting at Mom and Dad’s. I’m happy to have him with me because he’s a great troubleshooter. I wish I could clone him.”

  “How old is he?”

  “In his eighties.”

  “It’s sweet you’re close to him.” Smiling, Trinity stood on tiptoe and kissed me. “You’re lucky to still have him. I only had my grandma Minnie until I was ten.”

  “He’s slowed down a lot.”

  “So will I if I don’t get more coffee.”

  TRINITY

  After I downed my third cup of coffee, I said, “I need to get my bag out of your truck.”

  “You take that purse with you everywhere?”

  “It’s not a purse. And yes, I always have art supplies with me. I never know when I’ll—”

  “Get the urge to whip up a graphic novel?” he supplied with a grin. “That seems to be the only medium you haven’t worked in.”

  I whistled and looked at the ceiling.

  “Of course you’ve done a graphic novel. Can I see it?”

  “I did it three years ago, and no, you can’t see it. I’m not even credited as the artist.” I held my hand up when he growled. “Stop acting like you want to pound on someone because a big bad publishing house took advantage of a naive Minnesota artist. That’s not what happened.”

  “Fill in the blanks when I get back, baby, or I’m going to find my brass knuckles. Nobody better mess with my woman.” He cut around the corner and disappeared into the garage.

  His woman? I loved to hear him call me that.

  After he dropped my bag on the counter, he stole a kiss. I loved that about him too.

  “So, Stan Lee, spill the ink.”

  And I really loved that he could be such a dork. “I dabbled in graphic novels in college. I had a few offers to make that my career, but—” I gave him a sheepish smile. “I knew I’d get bored. My prof contacted me when this well-known graphic artist had some health emergency and couldn’t work for two months. The project had already been delayed six months, so they needed a ‘ghost’ artist. Meaning they paid me a lot of money to keep my mouth shut and do the work, which was outlined to the tiniest detail. End of story.”

  “But did it sell really well and get rave reviews?”

  I shrugged. “I didn’t check. Seriously, I couldn’t tell anyone even if it had hit the top of the bestseller lists. I’m better off not knowing.” I pushed my coffee cup toward him and pulled out my sketch pad. “Now flex those drool-worthy muscles while you’re slaving over a hot stove, and I’ll see if I can’t earn my breakfast this morning.”

  Walker’s big hand reached out to hold me firmly by the back of the neck and tipped my face up to press a hot kiss to my lips. “Sweetheart, you more than earned this breakfast last night.”

  We stayed like that—his hand on me in a possessive way it hadn’t been before, studying each other because there was no denying things had changed for us in a big way last night.

  In the past, if my friends had waxed poetic about sex, claiming it had changed everything for them, I’d secretly sneered at them. Sex was sex. Kissing led to touching; touching led to part A into slot B; friction of A and B led to tingly, pulsing release.

  But last night with Walker? I had become a true believer. We’d reached a level of intimacy I hadn’t known existed. Our bodies were in perfect sync—from the rapid thundering of our hearts to our ragged breath to the wet heat my body created to welcome his.

  Not that it hadn’t been urgent and fun, thrilling and maddening as we teased and taught and learned each other. But that first go-around, face-to-face, in his bed, I’d felt the change start. Not in my head. Not between my legs. In my chest. A click of the last tumbler that finally unlocked the vault to my heart. When Walker looked at me and said my name, I realized he’d felt that same click too.

  Even now, it didn’t feel like it’d been a fanciful moment we could laugh off in the light of day. Yet I didn’t know what to say.

  “Christ, Trin. You’re so pretty first thing in the morning.”

  I raised both eyebrows. “I am?”

  “With your sex hair and the pink tinge to your cheeks and your mouth looking well used. It’s about all I can do not to haul your luscious ass back up to my bed.”

  “Sex hair?” I repeated. “Dude. You oughta talk. I seriously did a number on your hair last night.”

  “Babe, you did a number on me last night.”

  Of course Mr. I Suck at Words proved he didn’t suck yet again, by saying the perfect thing.

  I smiled. “Back atcha, babe.”

  That satisfied him. He kissed me and released me.

  Walker started chopping mushrooms, onions and peppers.

  I sketched quickly, opting to draw his entire torso and not just the appendages attached.

  “I do have one way you can help me.”

  My gaze flicked between the paper and the subject. “Hit me.”

  “This room—hell, all the rooms—needs color on the walls.”

  “I agree.” I scrutinized the space. As the color wheels in my head spun, I walked to the refrigerator, pulling out bottles of ketchup, mustard, barbecue sauce and mayonnaise. I squirted all four condiments onto one plate. Then I dug through my bag until I found a paintbrush.

  Using a butter knife, I cut the piles into quarter sections and began to mix them.

  Walker seemed intrigued with my experimentation . . . until I painted a swath of barbecue sauce down the center wall in the kitchen.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Giving you paint options.” Next I painted a thick line of mustard. Lastly a mix of barbecue and mayonnaise that ended up pink. “If it were me? I’d go with this bolder hue of barbecue sauce.” I pointed to it with the tip of the paintbrush. “This large space can sustain a vivid color. And the light in here will wash everything down a tone. Plus, barbecue against the pickled wood cabinets will really make them pop.”

  “She’s serious,” he said to my back as I ducked around the corner into the living room.

  Immediately I had a pang of sympathy for the empty space.

  Walker moved in behind me and set his chin on my shoulder. “Why the big sigh, sweetheart?”

  “Because this is such a cool room. You could do so much with it, but you’ve done nothing. This is the poor little room that could be great. Decorator magazine worthy. And the room knows it. That makes it so sad. Can’t you see how even the
floor sags with desolation?”

  “Funny. How would you fix it?”

  Maybe I went into too much detail about painting opaque pearlescent glaze over lemon-colored walls. Adding two oversized slouchy sofas covered in khaki fabric facing each other with a square wooden coffee table between them, situated on a cream, yellow and khaki patterned rug. I described the shapes and colors of the throw pillows and the blankets. I added a bookcase and a sofa table and one fussy damask chair with a zebra stripe. I started to conceptualize the art, but that was abstract and this place needed realism.

  He was so quiet after I finished, I held my breath. Did he hate my ideas? Or had he realized I’d been decorating this room for me and it freaked him out? “You didn’t stop my ramblings with a kiss this time.”

  “You weren’t rambling. I got sucked in when you began describing everything. I could see it for the first time since I moved into this house six years ago.”

  “Why didn’t you hire a professional designer? Don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s not like money is an issue for you.”

  “The designers I’ve worked with have been nutjobs. I’d rather have nothing in here than the wrong thing.”

  “I disagree.”

  He turned me around to face him. “Maybe I should put you in charge. I don’t know if anyone has ever told you this, but you have an eye for color.”

  His ability to go from serious to funny was one of my favorite things about him.

  As was his ability to go from funny to intense when that lust-filled look darkened his eyes.

  I had a two-second warning and then his mouth collided with mine.

  Walker’s hands were on my ass and his teeth had started the journey down my throat when the doorbell rang.

  I froze.

  “Ignore it. Christ, I want this shirt gone. I want my mouth on you.”

  His aggression increased and the doorbell chimed again.

  Four times in a row.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” he murmured against my breast.

  “Walker. They can see us sneaking up the stairs!”

  “No, they—” He raised his head and peered over my shoulder. “Yeah, I guess they can.”

  “Who is it?”

  “My parents.”

  “What!”

  He tugged me toward the door and I dug in my heels—my bare heels—and I almost landed on my ass. “I cannot meet your parents looking like this.”

  “Why not? You look hot as hell with sex-mussed hair and my beard marks on your throat.” His gaze roved over me as thoroughly as a caress. “And, babe, at least you’re wearing clothes. If they’d shown up just five minutes from now . . .” He smirked and tapped my butt.

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Lund,

  I didn’t mean to kill your son. It all started when he . . .

  The doorbell pealed again.

  Walker sighed. He sidestepped me and answered the door. “Mom. Dad. What a surprise.”

  Where was a big potted plant when I needed one?

  The beautiful blonde, dressed to the nines in gray-and-pink-striped suit pants and a gray silk blouse, strolled in and put her hands on Walker’s cheeks. “Smile at me, precious boy. Pretend happiness that we are here.”

  He bared his teeth and even then his dimples popped out.

  “See? Not so hard.”

  A tall, extremely good-looking man with dark hair and an easy smile approached me.

  Walker returned to my side to make introductions. “Dad. Mom. This is Trinity. My girlfriend.”

  Mr. Lund offered his hand. “Good to meet you, Trinity. I’m Ward. This is Selka, my better half.”

  “So nice to meet you both.” Now please let me run upstairs and hide until you leave.

  “There’s coffee. And I was about to make breakfast, if you’re hungry.”

  Selka’s right eyebrow went up. “It’s late for breakfast, no?”

  Walker shrugged. “We had a late night and didn’t feel like getting out of bed.”

  He might as well have shouted, BECAUSE WE HAD SEX ALL NIGHT LONG AND ONCE THIS MORNING AND WE WERE ABOUT TO GET OUR NAKED GROOVE ON WHEN YOU SHOWED UP.

  “Coffee would be great,” his dad said.

  “We will fika. I make Swedish cake,” his mother announced.

  “No, Mom, that’s okay. You don’t—”

  “Walker, if your mother wants to make a cake, let her. I, for one, would love cake.”

  She looked at me skeptically. “You like mandelkaka med björnbär?”

  Crap. What if this was a test? To see if I liked herring cake or something? Wait. Was lutefisk considered cake?

  Ward came to my rescue. “It’s an almond and berry cake. Quite delicious actually. And it doesn’t take hours to prepare like some of her fika specialties,” he said to Walker.

  “My grandma used to let me help her make no-bake chocolate balls that were so good. She told me it was a traditional Swedish recipe, but I don’t remember the name.”

  “Chokladbollar?” Walker said.

  I looked at him with shock. “Yes! That’s it. How do you know about them?”

  “We used to make those all the time growing up.”

  “Me too! We should make them together sometime.”

  We exchanged a silly grin.

  Selka watched us very carefully. To Walker she said, “You will put on shirt.” Then she said to me, “You will help me.”

  Seeing her designer outfit, I translated that into, I will make you do all the work and judge every move you make. I kept a smile in place as I said, “Sure. It’ll be fun.”

  —

  Selka surprised me. She whipped up the batter in no time and didn’t get a speck of flour on herself.

  But as soon as she put the cake in the oven, she switched from baking to grilling.

  She pointed to the wall behind us. “You have food fight with my son?”

  “No. We discussed paint colors for the kitchen and living room. He needed an example so I used what he had on hand. It’ll be interesting to see what color he ends up with.”

  Selka sauntered to the counter and picked up the drawing I’d started of Walker’s oh-so-fine, oh-so-naked chest. “You are artist? You do this?”

  “Yeah.” Excellent verbal skills, Trin.

  She sighed. “My boys. Big men, like their father. Handsome men, like their father. Smart men, like their father. I see these . . . cheesecake muscles and admit those? They did not get from their father.”

  Cheesecake muscles? That didn’t make sense. “Oh, you mean beefcake muscles.”

  “Yah. That.”

  “There are another couple of pictures that I started.” I didn’t add of his face, because that implied I’d done other pictures . . . not of his face.

  Selka flipped through the pages until she reached one of the ones I’d mentioned. She squinted at it, then at me. “Did he pose for this?”

  “We were hanging out together and Walker dozed off. The light