by K. K. Allen
All my energy goes back into cleaning, wiping down every surface I can reach, scrubbing in places that don’t need to be scrubbed. The room is almost spotless before I hear the click of the door, signaling that the last of Jaxon’s groupies have officially left the building.
Claire warned me. Jaxon is practically famous around here. These girls go crazy for him. I saw it for myself tonight. Whatever feelings have been resurfacing need to stop—now. I’m in Balsam Grove for me. To reclaim the bits and pieces of me that were stolen long ago, and the last thing I need is Jaxon distracting me from my mission.
My pulse races when I spot a lonely wine glass, still half-full, sitting on Jaxon’s desk at the front of the room. Jaxon is there, wiping down his station and organizing his supplies. I brave it toward the front of the room, my sights set on the last wine glass. But as soon as it’s in my hands, I find myself stopping in front of the finished canvas and tracing the heart-shaped stream of acrylic paint with my eyes.
“I charge by the hour, you know.”
I jump, my heart leaping out of my chest at the sound of his voice. Wine splashes onto my hands and I turn to the side with a laugh. “That did not—”
My words are halted by my gasp when the wine in my hand slams into Jaxon’s brick wall of a chest. Deep red wine splatters onto his freshly painted canvas and his cream-colored shirt just before the glass shatters at our feet.
“Oh, shit. Oh, shit!” My heart rate spikes as I swipe a rag from my back pocket and crouch to mop the tile. And to think I almost made it out of this place unscathed. Shaking my head with embarrassment, I mop up as much wine as I can before my rag is dripping.
“Hey,” Jaxon squats to face me. “There’s glass everywhere. Let me get this.”
Acknowledging him with a shake of my head, I continue to wipe at the mess. “No, this is my mess. Let me clean it.”
“C’mon, Aurora.” He reaches for my hand to stop me, but I yank it away, losing my balance and teetering off the balls of my feet. I throw my hands back to catch me, realizing too late what a shitty idea that was. My palms hit the slippery floor, but that’s not all. What feels like one thousand tiny shards of glass pierce my left hand, and pain shoots straight up my arm.
Before I can assess the damage, Jaxon’s pulling me to my feet. “Let me go, Jaxon. I need to clean my mess.” My throat is tight, my eyes sting, and I have to fight for my next breath. Why won’t he just let me clean?
“You’re bleeding, Aurora. Stop fighting me and let me take care of you.”
I try to resist his hold, but every time I tug away from his grasp, he pulls me closer and closer until I’m officially struggling for air. I take it in in sips and hiccups, fighting like hell for my lungs to expand to feel some relief. But it’s not working, and my vision begins to fade from blurry to black.
“Let me go, Jaxon.” I squeeze out the words between each tiny breath.
He releases me, but that just seems to make it worse. I latch onto him without thinking, and his arms circle my waist, holding me tighter, steadying me.
“Hey, it’s going to be okay.” His calm, strong voice is my life preserver, and I cling to it desperately. “Can you focus on something for me? The painting. Anything. Just focus and try to breathe, okay? Deep, slow breaths.”
My eyes flicker to his lips, and my ears devour his deep rasp as it surrounds me. Meanwhile, my nose finds the slightest hint of crisp cedar in his scent while my fingers grip the edge of his shirt and tug, doing my best to ground myself in reality. And as my world threatens to fade to black, I use his strength to pull me back to the surface, trading darkness for light.
“You’ve got this, Aurora. Can you take a deeper breath for me?”
His command brings on a quick, deep breath that fills my insides, and my body goes slack in his arms. “There she is.” He’s rubbing my back as my body becomes a ragdoll in his hold. I can feel him move me, guiding my disoriented body toward the back room. “Fight me again and I’ll toss you over my shoulder.”
Under normal circumstances his growling tease would make me blush, but these are not normal circumstances. What in the world just happened to me? My panic attacks have never been like that—like I was being yanked from my body and plunged into the deepest part of the earth. Then it hits me.
My pills. My full bottle of anxiety meds that I left at Scott’s.
Shit. I thought I could try to go without them for a little while. To see if I could handle my attacks on my own. Turns out I can’t, and I’ll need to get them replaced pronto.
Once we’re in the back room, which extends the length of the studio and café, he leaves me at the breakroom sink and begins to search a wall of shelving between the bathroom and breakroom.
“Stay here.”
A spark warms my chest as I glare at him over my shoulder. “You’re so bossy.”
“Yeah, well, technically I’m your boss, so…”
I could scream at his arrogance. Instead, I let out a forced annoyed breath and fight back a smile. “You are not my boss.”
My arms wrap around my waist, holding tight as I continue to regain my equilibrium. What I find in the mirror over the sink is frightening. Disheveled hair, half out of its ponytail holder. Smeared eyeliner that makes me look like a bandit. A streak of blood across my cheek.
But then I catch Jaxon’s eyes in the mirror, and none of it matters. He’s standing behind me, the top of my head barely reaching the top of his chest, and I shiver again.
With Jaxon, I feel every silence like it’s a calm before a storm. Anticipation twists through me as I wait for his next move. I don’t have to wait long. It’s as if a vacuum has come along and sucked up all the air in the room when he presses his chest against my back and leans forward to switch on the faucet.
Leaning down, his breath dangerously close to my neck, he examines my hand. “Hmm. We’ll need to wash this blood off. It will sting, but I need to get the glass out.”
As much as I want to be stubborn about this, he’s right. So when his strong hands cup my elbows, I let him push me forward, easing my left palm under the water. At the first bite of cold, it’s like tiny needles are stabbing me. I wince.
At some point, his hands slide from my elbows to my forearms and he grips me tightly, maneuvering my hand under the water like I’m his puppet. Unnecessary, but I get the feeling he needs this. To play a part in helping me. He’s slow, careful, washing me gently until the last of the blood has left my hand and swirls down the drain.
Jaxon switches off the water and gently lifts my injured hand. Curious, I peer over my shoulder. As he examines me, I examine him back—the hard lines of his face, his unshakeable concentration. His even breathing. His jaw, cloaked with an inch of thick, dark beard I already love. His stormy gray eyes as they zero in on something in my palm.
It’s not until I feel a pinch that I realize he’s taken the first piece of glass out of my hand. Snapping my head down, I watch as he plucks out another shard and places it on a napkin beside the sink. Mesmerized, I’m glued to his every move. I’m thankful when he’s done but disappointed when he steps away after wrapping my hand in a light bandage.
I look at him over my shoulder, and we lock eyes again. There’s something unspoken there. Something that causes my eyes to drop to his mouth and my lips to part just slightly as I think, just for an instant, what it would be like to kiss Jaxon again.
Before I do anything stupid, I flip around so I’m facing him. My bandaged hand finds the edge of the sink, control quickly filling my body with each new breath. “Thank you.”
Mortified doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel right now. Between stumbling around all night serving drunken college girls with big, fat crushes on Jaxon, spilling that damn wine, cutting open my hand, and having a panic attack in front of him, tonight has been a disaster.
“May I?” He’s gesturing toward the sink so he can wash my blood from his stained hands. We swap places so I’m
now standing behind him. My eyes follow the movement of his arms as they flex and move against each other, rinsing and scrubbing until his hands are clean.
I almost miss the hint of a smile on his face as he glances at me over his shoulder. “Did you really dislike my painting that much?”
Heat scales my body. That’s right. I ruined his painting, too. “I’m so sorry, Jaxon. I wish I could replace it.” Trying to ignore the fact that my face is probably as red as the wine I spilled, I step closer as he faces me. “And you shouldn’t put weight on anything I say about your art. You know you’re talented beyond measure.”
“Yeah, well. So are you.”
“Were.”
He shakes his head, his jaw hardening and lips tightening as he dries his hands on a towel. “I can’t forget what you said earlier because you were speaking the truth. Aurora, you don’t have to love everything I paint.”
“But I do.” I’m such an idiot.
He laughs, a beautiful laugh I didn’t realize how much I missed until now.
Sighing, I see that he won’t let this go. “You know better than anyone that art means something different to everyone. I guess I just prefer my art to have a story. But that doesn’t mean that piece out there isn’t beautiful.”
He studies me, tilting his head slightly as his gray eyes shimmer in the overhead lights. “Everything I create has a story. Did you ever think that? Even if you don’t remember the story, it still happened.”
I try to ignore the insinuation that his art has anything to do with me and watch him with pleading eyes. “I’m not explaining myself well. I wasn’t judging your art.”
“Of course you were. That’s what art is for. To judge, to critique. There’s no right way to see art. It’s aesthetics.” He pauses, his eyes still on mine. “If you’re spending any time thinking about how your senses are reacting, then we’re both doing our jobs—as artist and critic.”
I groan now, hating how much I love his words. Hating the effect every syllable has on my skin. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten this about me. My father was a philosopher. It’s ingrained in me to question everything. The paintings displayed in the café—those make me feel something. That’s all I meant.”
“And tonight’s painting doesn’t evoke anything? Not a romantic bone in your body, huh?”
That question sounds like a trap. Instead of answering, I turn toward the back cabinet filled with branded shirts for the café and art studio. I grab a black one that looks to be about Jaxon’s size and toss it to him. “Sorry about your shirt.”
He glances down, assessing the wine stains. “What? I was hoping you would autograph it later.”
“That’s not really my thing anymore.” It’s a confession, though I know it’s a bit abstract.
His eyes hint at acknowledgement. “You never did answer my questions earlier.”
I shrug, averting my eyes.
“Aurora.” He speaks softly, but in a scolding tone that rings my heart. “Are you seriously telling me you haven’t painted since you left?”
I nod, swallowing to steady my nerves. “I’m going to wait for you out front.”
Placing my palm on the door, I pause before opening it. His stained shirt is lifted, covering his face and revealing a tight, rippled chest and narrow waist.
Jaxon catches me staring as he flattens the new shirt against his sculpted frame. He gives me that look. The one from the very beginning when we found ourselves treading water together. It’s just a look, but it makes me feel like we share a secret.
Pushing my way out the doors and back into the café to compose myself, I press my back against the nearest wall and move my palm to my chest, trying desperately to stop the race of my pulse. I need to get Jaxon out of my head. It’s the least I can do, because there’s no way in hell I’ll ever get him out of my heart.
My eyes stay glued to the taillights of Aurora’s car until they round the first bend, disappearing completely from view. After everything—the pain, the distance, the anger—my chest still aches when I watch her leave.
Since the moment I saw her standing in that window at Henry’s cottage, I knew I was in trouble. It was more than the way she lit up in the dark, her dark brown hair a tangled mess and her wrinkled nightgown clinging to her soft curves. It was the rise and fall of her chest as if she was fighting to pull herself out of another panic attack. Like nothing had changed.
Nothing. Not even the impulse that swept through me to remove the glass barrier between us and take her in my arms. To soothe her. To let her know she wasn’t alone.
Tonight I had my chance. The fear that glistened in her big blue eyes wrapped my heart with cold fingers and squeezed. I refused to let her push me away, not when my need to protect her felt as necessary as breathing. Seven years didn’t change the perfect fit of her body in mine. Her olive skin still felt baby soft beneath my touch. She still smelled of orange blossoms and wild berries, a perfect pairing to her natural exotic beauty.
Aurora’s father immigrated to the United States from Ukraine when he was a child with his parents, both doctors. Just a short few years into his young teaching career, he fell in love with Aurora’s mother, Frieda Santos, who was raised in Portugal by an American mother and a Spanish father until she moved to Durham, North Carolina for college.
I always thought Aurora was a perfect blend of charm and seduction, and nothing about that has changed. And that does nothing to ease the temptation that runs through me when she’s near, the need to know everything about the past six years of her life, and the desire to help her find her way back to her art.
I grip the handle and twist back on the bar of my bike. The engine roars, and I consider my next move. A few seconds later, I shut off the engine, swing my leg over the bike and walk back toward Creek Canvas.
I have no idea how things will end with Aurora in town, but I have an idea of how they can begin.
I’m stacking fallen logs from the wood pile beside the cottage when I hear the crunch of leaves and twigs behind me. My heart does a little flip in my chest when I look over my shoulder to see Jaxon approaching with Lacey.
“Whoa, girl,” I say, the back of my knees slamming against the wood pile as Lacey bounces up to me, her nose pushing directly into my crotch. Well, okay then. At least she’s not threatening to tear my head off like yesterday. “Um, Jaxon,” I call, slamming my legs shut. That doesn’t stop Lacey as she plows into me again. “Think you can help me here?”
“Oh, so now you want my help?” he teases.
Lacey continues to sniff around while Jaxon laughs.
“What is up with her?” I ask, amused but a little annoyed.
“She’s trying to get to know you again.”
“Well, can you tell her she’s going about it all wrong?” I place my hand on Lacey’s nose and try to push her away.
“Tell her yourself.”
I look up, ready to snap at him when I see his playful smile.
“Seriously, Jaxon?”
His laughter softens. “Okay, okay.” Narrowing his eyes, he crouches down slightly. “Lacey,” he commands with a clap of his hand on his thigh. “Come.”
She pulls away from me with a hanging smile and wide, happy blue eyes before trotting back to her owner.
I’m straightening out my denim cut-offs while Jaxon lectures Lacey about how to approach women. He looks good, dressed in khaki-colored cargo shorts that hit just below his knees and a solid gray t-shirt covered in paint splotches. There’s also something in his hands, which I’m guessing is the reason for his visit. It’s rectangular and thin, wrapped in brown paper, about the size of the canvases from last night.
“Don’t tell me,” I tease, my eyes shooting lasers at the package. “A housewarming gift?”
He returns a smile so charming that I’m not sure I could move forward to greet him without my legs turning to putty. “Something like that.”
But he doesn’t hand it to
me. Instead, he props it against the side of the house and tips his head. “Open it later. Let’s go for a walk.”
Dusting my hands against my jeans, I turn back to the rest of the fallen wood I’ve yet to stack. It’s not going anywhere anytime soon.
“Okay, but you need to keep an eye on Lacey. I can’t decide if she really likes me or if she’s looking for a reason to make me her next meal.”
Jaxon laughs. “She likes you, I promise. I can’t say she felt the same way yesterday, but you’re good today.”
My eyes go wide as I stare back at him, completely mortified. He knew I was there. But how? And why is he just telling me now? Asshole.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I try.
“Liar.”
Crap. “Fine, but I didn’t see anything. I swear.”
His eyes narrow in amusement. “Big liar.” He takes a step, patting his leg for Lacey to follow. “You could have warned me you were there. Otherwise, it kind of seems like you were peeping on me in the woods. And that’s a little creepy.”
Heat rushes through my body, filling my cheeks with transparent mortification. “Oh my God, Jaxon, I wouldn’t do that. I wasn’t even paying attention to where I was going or how far I’d gone. I just kept walking up the river. And then I saw your house, and by then it was too late. I looked down and you were—”
“Naked.”
I swallow. “Yeah. Sorry.” Then I tilt my head. “You aren’t worried a tourist will wander onto your property and see you?”
He shrugs. “Hikers are pretty good about sticking to the trails. Don’t you remember all of this?”
“It’s been a long time.”
There’s a pause, a beat too long as his eyes pin me in place. “Let me show you around the woods again. Lacey and I walk the old trails every day. And if you’re sticking around for a while, you should know your way. But here’s a quick tip: if you get lost, just keep walking in one direction. It might take you an hour in some areas, but eventually you’ll arrive somewhere. A road, a business, a house. We’re not that deep in the mountains that you couldn’t find your way.”
