by Sarah Smith
“One sec,” he mutters between kisses before jetting off to the bathroom.
When he walks back out, he stops at the makeshift office space I have set up in the corner of my studio apartment. I fight the urge to cover my face with a pillow. He’s getting an up-close look at the cluttered mess I call my dream job.
I watch him as his gaze moves slowly across my workspace. Watercolors, colored pencils, and oil pastels scatter the surface. A pile of blank canvases rests on the floor. A trio of watercolor portraits I’ve been commissioned to do hang on the walls as they dry. He walks up to my easel in the corner, which houses my latest work: a watercolor cityscape at twilight. Hues of purple and blue splash across the center of the canvas. He squints, I assume at the hefty amount of white space bordering the image.
“It’s not done yet,” I croak.
The way he beams at me settles me instantly. “It’s gorgeous. Absolutely stunning.”
He crawls back into bed with me, moving so his back is against the headboard, then cuddles me against him. In this position, we have a head-on view of my art space.
“I didn’t know you also did portraits,” he says, pointing at the portrait sitting on my easel. “They’re breathtaking.”
I study the half-finished rendering of a client’s wife. An anniversary gift. I glance down at our arms laced together. It’s so natural, sitting like this.
“That’s sweet of you to say, thank you.” I let my head fall back against his shoulder. “They’re my favorite things to work on, next to watercolor cityscapes. I wish I could do them more often, but I only do portraits when people submit a request on my website for one, which is only every couple of months.”
Wes must have some sort of superhuman ability to set strangers at ease. I feel like I’m chatting with my best friend or family when I talk to him.
“You’re an incredibly talented artist.”
“Trying to be.”
He pats my hand. “Don’t talk yourself down. You’re brilliant, and it’s obvious. And given you’re building a business, you’re clearly kicking ass.”
“I have to work nights at my cousin’s bar to keep up with my bills. That’s hardly kicking ass.”
“Hey.” The stare he flashes is a no-nonsense brand of seriousness. “Don’t say that. You’re working hard to make your dream come true. In a world where millions of people work jobs they hate, that’s the very definition of kicking ass.”
I let a smile loose, basking in his heartfelt praise. “My parents say the exact same thing.”
“See? I know what I’m talking about.” He settles back behind me.
“That must be a go-to thing for all parents to say if yours and mine say it,” I chuckle.
The muscles in his stomach tighten against my back. He clears his throat. “Fun plans today?” he asks, his lips pressed against the back of my neck.
“I promised Remy I’d stop by the bar this afternoon and help take down the Valentine’s decorations.”
“What are you doing until then?”
“Not a whole lot.”
“Could I maybe keep you company until you have to go?” He skims a finger along the curve of my hip before letting his hand settle between my thighs.
“I would love that.”
The walk to Dandy Lime is a challenge and not just because of the beard burn on my thighs.
It’s because I’m fighting the urge to grab Wes by the hand, march him back to my apartment, and dive right back into bed. I smile to myself, my mind replaying the pornographic film reel of this morning and afternoon spent entirely in my bed. Wes and I didn’t leave my mattress until the last possible moment, when I had thirty minutes to shower and walk to work.
Even with the raw thighs and the wet hair in single-digit temperatures that will surely give me pneumonia, I can only think of one word: more. I want more sweet smiles, more easy conversation, more of that magnetic feeling.
I want more Wes.
But I can’t say that. That would make me sound unbelievably desperate. So instead, I just keep walking.
Wes wags an eyebrow at me. “So that was fun.”
“It was.” I beam at the sidewalk.
We stop outside the entrance of the bar. Both of us do our own versions of nervous shuffling. Wes shoves his hands in his coat pockets while squinting at the surroundings; I cross my arms and stare at the ground.
I bite back all the questions I want to ask. Will he be busy during his month-long pit-stop in the city? Does he want to see me again? Is he as blown away as I am that we’ve hit it off so well, so fast?
Saying any of that would be a major faux pas. I’m the one who asked him to my place last night. I made the last major move, and to initiate the next one could make me look too eager.
I swallow back all the words dancing on the tip of my tongue. No more overthinking. Just relax and play it cool.
“Thanks for walking me,” I say.
“Of course.” He offers a gentle smile before taking a step toward me.
A long beat of silence follows. He says nothing; I say nothing.
Finally, mercifully, he speaks. “Shay, would you—”
His phone ringing interrupts him. I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to snatch it out of his hand and toss it into a nearby sewer grate. What awful, no good, very bad timing. Instead, I stand quietly and pretend to check something on my phone while he finishes his conversation.
“They what? When?” A concerned frown cloud’s Wes’s face. “Shoot, yeah. Hang on, man. I’m coming.”
When he hangs up, his frown says everything. He will not be asking me out.
“Sorry, my friend Colin—the shaggy-haired guy from last night—he needs my help. I gotta run.”
“Oh um, sure…”
He spins around and jogs away before I can even mutter “bye.”
I’m disappointed even though I have no right to be. We had an epic one-night stand that turned into morning and afternoon sex. That’s better than what most people get when they hook up with a stranger. It’s not fair to expect anything more.
Remy’s beaming face greets me when I walk into the bar.
“So your gut and your lady bits had fun last night, I take it?”
I roll my eyes. “Good afternoon to you too.” I start swiping origami hearts from the tables.
Remy rounds the edge of one, armed with a giddy smile. “Come on, tell me everything!”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Remy stares me down, hands on his hips. “That’s some bullshit if I’ve ever heard it. It’s three in the afternoon. You’re sporting a wet ponytail and he walked you here. You had a hell of a time. Spill.”
I roll my eyes. “We had a nice night and morning and afternoon. After he walked me here, he got a panicked phone call from his friend and then took off.”
“That’s it?” Remy frowns.
“That’s it.” I tug down the construction paper hearts hanging from the ceiling. “Nothing else to say.”
“No asking for your number? No plans to meet up later?”
I turn away from Remy and toss the hearts in a nearby cardboard box. I’m so not in the mood for an interrogation from my well-meaning cousin.
Even in the silence, I can hear the gears in Remy’s head turning. He pats my shoulder. “He’ll be back, don’t you worry.”
I scoff at the confidence in his tone. “I won’t be seeing him anytime soon, Remy.”
I weave through the tables, picking up the leftover dishes of candy hearts from the bar top, Remy trailing behind me.
“He’s into you whether you see it or not.”
I try not to roll my eyes. If there’s one thing more bothersome than a disappointing end to a date, it’s the pep talk loved ones give you afterward to try and help you feel better.
“Look, I don’t know much, but I know that a guy wouldn’t wait outside a bar at one in the morning when it’s cold as hell to ask a woman out unless he felt something strong.” Remy’s hands fall o
n his hips. “I guarantee he was going to ask you out, but the surprise phone call tripped him up.” He tosses a handful of decorations into a box. “He’ll be back. Mark my words.”
I swallow back a groan. “Can we drop it?
He holds his palms up to me. “Fine.”
I head to the back office to grab the step ladder so I can take down the pink streamers in the back hallway.
Remy’s hollered voice follows me all the way. “You know I’m right, cuz.”
In the privacy of the office, I let out the annoyed groan I’ve been holding in. “Fat chance,” I mutter.
Chapter Four
Two hours till closing time the day after Valentine’s Day and Dandy Lime has hit a pleasant, steady rhythm. Not slammed, but not slow. Customers have been polite and generous in their tips. Remy hasn’t had to frog-march any drunken patrons out the door.
He walks up to the bar and asks for a tray of sex on the beaches. “Twenty-first birthday.” He gestures to the lively group of young ladies in the back corner. “You know how it goes.”
I mix the drinks. Remy picks up the loaded tray before something at the entrance catches his eye. And then he grins, leaning down to my ear. “Romeo’s back. Told you.”
I spin around faster than I mean to, and I have to grip the counter to keep from falling over. Heat flashes across my skin when I see Wes’s smiling face. He takes a free seat at the bar, the one right in front of me.
“What a surprise.” Somehow my tone is easy, casual. A miracle considering the somersaults in my stomach.
He glances down at the bar top where his hand rests. He runs his other hand through his hair. “Sorry for how I left this afternoon. Colin’s car got broken into and he was in a panic when he called me for help.”
“That’s awful. Is everything okay?” I rest my hand on top of his. The warmth of his skin on my skin is divine.
“It will be. Just a long day of filing police reports and dealing with insurance.”
“You want a drink? Sounds like you could use one.”
“Got any good tequila?”
“Best we’ve got is Patrón Reposada.”
He makes a “not bad” face. “Better than I expected.”
I playfully smack his hand before filling a glass. He takes a long sip while I check on the couple seated next to him.
Wes tips his glass to me as if he’s toasting me. “From now on, whenever I drink good tequila, I’ll think of you. That’s a damn good pour you gave me. Perfect amount of ice, too.”
Biting my lip, I glance down, thankful for how my tan skin conceals the heat flashing through me. If I were pale, my red cheeks would be visible from outer space.
“I can do more than just paint pretty pictures.”
“That you can, Shay.”
That familiar flash ignites in his eyes, the same look that pinned me in my bed last night, this morning, and this afternoon. It feels like we’re the only two people in this bar.
He sets his glass on the counter. “Look, I know the standard thing is to play it cool and not seem too eager, but I really like you.”
Slowly, I exhale. It’s bliss hearing him say that.
“I’m here for a month, and I’d like to see you as much as I can while I’m here,” he says. “If you’re interested.”
I am a nodding, smiling fool. “I’d love that.”
He downs the rest of his glass, then stretches his arm out to my face, tucking a stray chunk of hair behind my ear. “Text me after you’re done here. Maybe we can grab breakfast again.”
“Or you can meet me at my place?”
He smiles. “That works too.”
Leaning forward, he kisses me. It’s decidedly PG, nowhere near the wild, X-rated kisses of last night or this morning. We’re in public after all. But it’s still one hundred percent hot. Anything having to do with Wes’s mouth on me is hot.
He pays, we say goodbye, and he heads out the door.
“What did I tell you, cuz?” Remy pulls me into a bear hug from behind.
I tap his arm and he finally releases me. “Fine, you were right.”
“You two are so damn precious already.”
I shove his arm, but his solid frame doesn’t budge. “He’s only here for a month. We’re just having a good time. Don’t get carried away.”
Remy flashes me his best “yeah right” face. “You invited him to your place tonight. For the second night in a row. I’d say that’s veering near ‘carried away’ territory. You’re smitten.”
I toss a tea towel at him, but he catches it easily with one hand. I roll my eyes and bite back the smile aching to spread across my face. Because Remy’s right. I’m smitten for sure.
Three weeks into Wes’s “I’d like to see you as much as I can” proposal, and the two of us have sprinted yards past the “smitten” boundary.
We’ve seen each other every single day since the night he surprised me at Dandy Lime. If I’m working a bar shift, he’ll come in an hour before close and nurse a tequila on the rocks while waiting for me. If I’m free, we grab dinner or a drink. If I’m working from home, he stops by my apartment, always with a meal packed for us to share. There is always sex. Never has there ever been a more enjoyable three weeks on this planet.
I’m constantly smiling, giddy, laughing. Remy comments every time he sees me. That I seem like I’m floating on a post-orgasmic cloud 24/7. I brush it off, but he’s right. I am obnoxiously happy. And it’s different from the joy I’ve experienced with the guys I’ve been with in the past. Every time I see Wes, my stomach flips, my heart skips, my breath catches. One look at him, and it’s like a beam of sunlight explodes from within me. Simply being around him—cuddled together in my bed, watching Netflix on my couch, holding hands while walking down the street—is an unfamiliar, all-encompassing contentment I’ve never known before.
I stare at the most recent work on my easel. The image smiling back at me is evidence of just how different these feelings and these past few weeks with Wes have been.
Against the stark white of the canvas, a charcoal rendering of his face half-smiles back at me. With my fingers, I smudge the mass of black that is his hair. Then I take the pencil, darkening in his eyes. When I finish, I lean back and study it. Heat glides up my neck and cheeks. After a second, I roll my eyes. It’s a sketch of him and yet I’m as giddy as if he were standing here in front of me, displaying that panty-dropping grin.
I’ve never once drawn a guy I’ve dated before. The thought’s never crossed my mind. But with Wes, it’s different. Everything is, from the way my hand tingles when he holds it, to the safety I feel when I fall asleep in his arms. It’s a feeling that’s grown ever since the night we agreed to see where things could go during his time here. Now it’s full-fledged emotions linking me to him.
I scan the floor, where a handful of watercolor paintings I’ve done of Wes lay, drying in the patch of sunlight streaming in through the window.
A knock at my door makes me jump.
“Just a sec!”
I flip over the canvas on my easel so the image faces the wall. With careful hands, I check the paintings. Dry, thankfully. I scramble to stack them together and tuck them behind the canvas on the easel. I take slow, deep breaths, the evidence of my growing feelings hidden safely away.
When I open the door, Wes stands, cloth bag in hand. “Thought you might want a little something to eat before your shift tonight.”
I thank him and step aside to let him in. We kiss, plop on my couch, and dig into the turkey club sandwiches he so lovingly made.
“Avocado?” I say around a bite. “What did I do to deserve such luxury? That stuff’s expensive.”
He kisses the tip of my nose before taking a bite. “You mentioned the other day that you gave it up to save money. Thought you deserved a treat.”
While chewing I nuzzle his neck, then sink my back against his chest.
“How’s work going?” Wes asks.
“Good. Busy, which I love
. A guy hired me to illustrate a storybook of his first date with his girlfriend. It’s a gift for her birthday next month. Super romantic.”
Wes finishes one half of the sandwich, then swipes the other half from the coffee table. I dig into the container of carrot sticks.
“Now how the hell are the rest of us supposed to measure up to a romantic gesture like that?” he says.
I snuggle closer to him. “I think you’re doing pretty well.”
We finish our sandwiches and he takes our trash to the kitchen. On his way back to the couch, he halts at my desk. He hunches over, staring at the illustrations I’m working on for the book.
“Damn, Shay. These are fantastic.”
He runs a finger over the edge of the paper, careful to avoid the actual images. I smile at his mindfulness. I mentioned the first week we started spending time together that smudges are the bane of my existence, so I always set down tissue paper under my hand when I draw.
I walk over to him and flip the pages over so he can see the rest.
“Disneyland was their first date,” I say. “Epic, right?”
Wes’s eyes cut to me, and I have to remind myself to breathe. It’s the exact same stare I captured in my charcoal drawing. It draws out the exact same reaction from me. Proof that no matter if he’s on paper or in person, he absolutely does it for me.
He winks. “Not as epic as ours. You can’t get much better than a slap in the face followed by making out in the bathroom.”
I shove his arm, and he reaches for the side of my stomach, tickling me until I squeal. Instinctively I jump back, bumping my easel.
A thud on the floor makes the two of us turn around. There lie my charcoal painting and every single watercolor work I’ve done of Wes, all of them face up.
My hands fly up to cup my mouth. The gesture does little to muffle my choked gasp. I take a step toward the sheet nearest me, but it’s too late. Wes is kneeling on the floor, a watercolor of his face in his hand, examining it with a narrow stare. He’s like a scientist studying bacteria growth on a petri dish.
