She cleared her throat. I expected her to tell him everything, but she didn’t. Instead, she steeled her eyes on me and said, “I just need help and if you won’t help me, I’ll find someone who will. I bet Dalton wouldn’t mind giving me private lessons.”
Fuck. No.
“I’ll do it.”
“Brook?”
“Brooklyn?”
The doorbell rang rapid fire. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
“Coming!”
I ran to the door, flung it open, and then flung myself at her. There was a whole lot of flinging going on.
Pulling back from me, Morgan’s eyes went wide. “What happened to your hair? Why didn’t you tell me you changed it? I LOVE it!” She ran her fingers through the now-dark strands in utter awe of the mess.
Morgan had spent a few extra days with Shaney-pooh before he finally let her up for air and let her come back to Swift Rapids. Truthfully, she was safer when she was with him. She should’ve stayed. I told her this in many forms; verbally, via text, via e-mail. I even considered carrier pigeon. But with her stubbornness, it wouldn’t have worked. Frustrating woman.
“I have a ton of stuff to show you! Are you ready to get started today?”
“Sure. But first, caffeine.”
She grinned and held up one finger. “Be right back.”
Morgan loved me. She brought me coffee. She also brought paint and canvases and brushes and…what the hell was that?
“Morgan?”
“Shh. It’s equipment and props for the shoot, silly.”
The giant teal rolling tote was a beast for us to maneuver up the steps, but we did it, albeit with copious amounts of grunting involved. Thank goodness Colt and Willy weren’t around to witness it. I’d never live it down.
The skinny, I learned over a second cup of coffee, was that Morg’s father was going to try to cash in a few favors and see if he could find out anything that Riley hadn’t already. Shane reluctantly flew back to Vegas because Manny was whipping him into even better shape for a fight he had coming up in a couple of months. Plus, Morgan had every piece of photography equipment known to man that could be stuffed into the tiny rental car strewn all over the living room floor. “What is all this stuff?”
“Oh, just a few things I bought. D.C. has the best stores.”
“Um-hmm.”
She smiled. I told her about Willy taking me to the festival, about Dalton and his assholish assumptions about me (the ones that everyone on earth shared), how Colt had jumped his ass, and about how I’d helped with the renovations in Condo number four while she was gone.
“So, Colt’s ass looks pretty fine in a tool belt, huh?” Morgan asked, wiggling her eyebrows.
“Hell yes. It’s ridiculous.” I blew over the surface of the velvety brown liquid, watching the steam dissipate and imagining that taut ass of his. Sigh. Pretty sure there’s a history of woman-hating there. Between Chrissy, or Christy, or whomever Dalton was getting ready to mention, and the psycho scissor wielder, Lynn… Poor guy.
She put her coffee cup down. “Is Colt still on vacation?”
“Yeah. Why?” I lowered my cup.
“We need a few things for the shoot today and I could use some muscle later on if he or Willy would want to help!”
“They’re busy, Morg.”
“Pssh. I just need to borrow a shirt from Colt and maybe fifteen minutes of their time later. They’ll be well compensated.”
“What sort of compensation?” I asked guardedly.
“They’ll get to see you all dolled up, of course!”
“Great,” I deadpanned.
She was down the steps and over at Colt’s before I could get up from my seat. And by the time I walked over to stand on his porch with Morgan, he was already rifling around looking for the items on a freaking list that she’d given him.
“A list?”
Morgan shrugged. “Better to bother him now with it all than to keep pestering him the rest of the day.”
I huffed, folding my arms over my chest. I didn’t want her to bother him at all. Ever.
“Y’all come on in. I’ll be a few minutes!” Colt’s deep voice came through the glass storm door.
Before I could swat her hand away from the brass handle, she wrenched it open and stepped into the foyer. “Damn it, Sin!” I hissed.
“What?” She fluttered her eyelashes. “Oh, it smells good in here. He smells yummy!” she whisper-yelled, her eyes wide.
“Shut up!” There was an inferno beneath my cheeks and it took a hell of a lot to make me nervous.
“What’s going on?” Colt smirked from the top step, holding a pile of weird things. I could see a dress shirt, frying pan, Tupperware of various sizes, flour, and a thick book.
I cleared my throat. “Nothing.”
“I didn’t have a couple of the things you need, but if you want I can take you to the store.”
“No, that’ll be fine,” Morgan answered. He walked down the steps and offered to carry the pile of stuff over to my place. “We can get it. There are two of us,” she added with a giggle.
Was she effing flirting with him? I gave her the flirt-with-him-and-die-you-have-Shane-holy-shit look. She smiled sweetly, told Colt goodbye, and we disappeared out the door.
“What was that?” I snapped once we were out of earshot.
“What?”
“You know what, Sin!”
“Just being friendly. He sure does like you!” She nudged me, which dislodged the frying pan and caused it to fall and bang into one of her toes. Hopping around like a frog on crack, she yipped and howled. I bet it did hurt. I, for one, knew that karma was a bitch.
“You okay?” I feigned concern. Okay, I was concerned. But I was also mad and sulking, and since the toe-smashing sort of made me happy, I felt a heavy helping of guilt swirling around in there somewhere too.
“I’m fine,” she growled, snatching the pan up from the walkway and marching up my steps. I noticed she limped a bit.
“You sure?” I goaded sweetly.
“Yes! Now let’s get to work, Brooklyn.” Well, crap. She was going to be grumpy now.
***
Morgan was flipping brilliant. I never should have imagined her doing just a normal portrait session. No, she took it one giant leap forward. She somehow figured out what was missing. I asked her what it was.
“You, silly. The pictures need to have a little bit of your soul in them. Every one of them.”
“My soul?”
“Your soul.”
“And how do you plan to capture my soul in a digital image?”
She smiled. “What do you think the paint is for?”
It was my turn to smile. The kid was on to something.
***
True to her word, every picture she snapped had paint in it. One was of me in a plain white t-shirt, poised in front of a canvas, harsh brush strokes forming an intricate pattern of swirls in every color that I could combine and create. When I was finished, she took the brush and placed some slashes of paint on my skin and on the shirt. She made me a part of the art against that white background. She made me Color.
The next was of me lying in bed with only a white sheet on; strokes of white painting my face, arms, chest, and the parts of my legs that were exposed.
Morgan ordered me to put on a pair of lacy white boy shorts and the dress shirt she borrowed from Colt that morning, so I stepped into the bathroom to wipe the white paint off of my skin and change. When I wrapped his shirt around me and buttoned it up, his scent enveloped me and I damn near came undone right there. Whatever this cologne is, I fucking need a bottle. I’d spray it all over my pillow cases when I got home. I might even bathe in it.
Just finishing a deep inhale after stepping out of the bathroom, I saw two very intense, light brown eyes staring back at me. Colt Stone had me in his sights and I suddenly knew what a doe felt like when a hunter spotted her. His pupils dilated, his nostrils flared, and he looked downright pissed.
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“Uh, sorry?”
“Sorry?” he ground out. “Why are you sorry?”
About that time, Morgan came into the room, no doubt having been caught in the heavy fog of awkward tension radiating between Colt and me. “Is…something wrong?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Colt doesn’t like me wearing his shirt.”
Colt just stared at me without saying a word.
Morgan intervened. “Do you mind, Colt? We might get paint on it. I didn’t think about that. We wouldn’t want to ruin it.”
“It’s fine,” he hissed.
“Okay,” Morgan drawled. “Let’s get you into position, Brook.” She moved behind me and shoved me toward the stove. On one of the burners was Colt’s frying pan, and inside the pan was yellow paint. A whisk’s wires were swimming in the pale yellow, its handle propped against the pan’s edge.
“What’s this?” I said with a nervous smile. Colt made me crazy, and why wasn’t he leaving?
Morgan smiled, dipping her finger into yellow paint and dabbing it on my nose. “Pin your hair out of your face. You’re making breakfast the morning after you just had an amazing night of sex.”
I swallowed, my face heating up. I loved sex. I loved breakfast after an exhausting night of sex. But talking about that around Colt Stone made me think of having an exhausting night of sex with him, and the way he was freakishly staring at the pair of us made me wonder if he wasn’t ready to kick me out of the condo or smash something. He was normally so easy-going, so this was weird. Out of character. A little creepy. A little hot. I bet he was great in bed. Think about eggs. Egg paint. Whisking egg paint. The paint fumes were getting to me. “We need to ventilate!” I suddenly screamed. Morgan jumped from the outburst and Colt just stood there staring at me. “The paint. The fumes are bad for you, and I’m starting to feel weird.”
With that, the mountain of a man moved. He crossed the room and began opening windows, letting in a cool breeze that fluttered the curtains just enough to make them dance. Morgan announced that she needed a potty break—What grown woman says potty break when they aren’t talking to a toddler? I really needed to talk to her about that—and left me to fend for myself, which didn’t seem like such a bad thing.
Colt strode toward me and fingered the top button of my—or his, rather—shirt. When his finger grazed the skin of my chest, I whimpered. His calloused hands were too much. Leaning down, his warm breath fanned my ear. “You look damn good in my shirt. And if it means you’ll wear it again, you can have it.”
With his signature smirk, he walked away and left me a hot, yellow mess, whisking away at fake egg paint. Wearing his shirt, his scent. Damn him.
***
A few thousand photographs later, I was finally able to shower and throw on some comfortable shorts and a tank top. Using a towel to get the excess water out of my short hair (which I was still fuming about, although it did look awesome thanks to Willy), my cell rang. Morgan was lost in Photoshop land, and I was glad. It was Colt.
“Hello?”
“Be ready in five.”
“For?”
“You wanna learn how to shoot or not, sweetheart?”
“Fine.” I hung up. I hated that he called me sweetheart. Peter used to call me that. I was pretty sure he meant it in a condescending, demeaning way and that Colt didn’t, but still. Old wounds still ached sometimes.
I tugged my tennis shoes on and tied them quickly. “Morg, I’m going out.”
That must have registered with her, because she looked up at me blankly. “With whom?”
“Colt.”
She lit up like a Griswold Christmas tree. “Really?” she said with a wry smile on her face. “And what will you and Officer Stone be doing on this outing?” Sin waggled her eyebrows at me and giggled.
“He’s gonna show me how to shoot a gun, if you must know. And if he will, I’m going to have him help me buy one—a pink one if they have it, with lots of bullets.”
The smile faded away and her brows pinched together. “That’s nice of him. He’s a good guy, Brooklyn.”
“Yeah. He’s a good friend.” I enunciated the word friend, just so she would get it through her thick head. Was I attracted to him? Um, yes. Was he attracted to me? On some level, yes. Could this work between us? Nope. He loved Swift Rapids, and while I did too, I wouldn’t be staying for long. The fact of the matter was that I had a job to return to, at least until I figured out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life, or what I could realistically afford to do with it. Painting was my passion, but it wouldn’t pay the bills.
She smiled. “Couldn’t hurt to have a friend with benefits while you’re here. As long as you both know it’ll end when you leave. If I were you, I’d tap that.”
“You’d tap that?”
“If Shane wasn’t in the picture, sure.”
I hustled to the door. “Wish me luck!”
“Get you some, girl!”
Pulling the door open, I was about to tell her to shut up and mind her own business when I ran into a rock hard chest—one belonging to Colt. The enormous smile on his face and his puffed out chest told me he just heard our entire conversation. Wonderful.
“You ready?” he asked with a smile.
“We have to take your truck. Not sure your ego will fit in the rental.”
“Not sure my dic—” he started, and then cleared his throat. “Yeah. Not sure my legs would even fit in there.”
I shook my head and took the steps two at a time to get rid of him. Too bad he was my instructor for the next couple of hours. And I needed his mad skills.
In more ways than one.
Shut up, conscience. You’re supposed to lead me on the righteous path, not the path of destruction.
But he’s hot and it would be fun.
Colt grumbled when I wouldn’t let him help me into the truck. “I can handle it. I’m a big girl, Colt.” When he settled into the driver’s seat and put his arm over the back of the seat, it brushed the back of my neck. Goosies broke out over my skin.
“You okay?” he looked me over.
“Just a little nervous.”
He smiled. “About shooting or about me?”
I was honest. “Both.”
The signal from Morgan’s rental indicated that she’d stopped and was staying in a small town in Virginia. Just over an hour from D.C., Swift Rapids was barely a blip on the map. Google said that it contained less than three hundred fifty residents and was home to only a few shops and one hotel. No doubt Brooklyn was staying there.
She and Morgan were the new girls in town. No doubt the gossip mills were turning. It couldn’t hurt to have one more person pass through and stay for a few weeks. I folded each of my shirts, stacking them carefully into the suitcase to avoid wrinkles. Brooklyn wouldn’t be attracted to a sloppy man.
The hotel had laundered my clothing so I would be ready for her; fresh and clean, the way she preferred. I took a long look in the mirror. Muscles were defined beneath my clothes now. She had transformed me.
Now, it was time to woo her and make her my own in reality.
It was time to stop being a secret admirer and admit my feelings to her. I would have to approach her slowly, give her time to adjust. Her life was unsteady at the moment. I would offer her a steady hand, a shoulder to cry on, and friendship at first. Then she would see that we were supposed to be together. We were always supposed to be together.
It was as if God created the perfect creature that was Brooklyn just for me. I was her Adam and she was my Eve.
The headphones were creeping me out. They blocked out the noise of the gun firing, but not the sound of Colt’s voice. No, they drew it closer, made it clearer. And his raspy tone in my head was more than enough to send me into a frenzy.
The target was fifty yards away and shaped like a man, which made me nervous. “Why isn’t the target like a ring?”
He smiled. “They have those too, but you wanted to protect yourself, right?” I nodded. “
Rings don’t attack people, B.”
“B?”
“Yeah, B. You hate it?”
Did I hate it? Not really. “Just wondering why you suddenly came up with a pet name for me.”
“You’re like a honeybee. You enjoy the flowers, collect the nectar, make the sweetest honey ever tasted, but you’ve got a stinger on you.”
“How would you know?”
“You’re learning to shoot a gun, for one thing. Most girls wouldn’t touch the things.”
I froze. “I have my reasons.”
He pinned me with a stare. “Care to share?”
“Not right now.”
“Later then.” Bossy man.
“Maybe,” I retorted.
“Maybe, my ass. If something bad is following you here, I need to know it. I need to be prepared and damn it, Brooklyn, I need to look out for you.”
I swallowed. “I don’t think trouble will find me here.”
“That’s the problem; you don’t think! Trouble can find you anywhere, B. And sometimes, you have to ask for help.”
With only short, gruff instructions, he helped me shoot the target. My first shots went into the dry earthen hillside, with only tiny plumes of dirt wafting up to tell me where they landed. Colt stepped behind me and re-positioned my arms. With his knee, he nudged my legs further apart and the jolt from the contact went straight to my core.
I breathed an unsteady breath when his stubble grazed my cheek. “Aim for his heart, B,” he rasped.
Pulling the trigger on an exhale, the bullet found its mark. I ripped the headphones off my head and with shaking hands, surrendered the pistol to him. Colt swiftly made sure the safety was on and that the gun was pointed toward the ground. “I hit him!” Two hours later, I finally hit the target where I was supposed to. “It was a fluke, but I hit him!”
“You need more practice, though,” Colt warned.
“I need to practice with my own gun.”
Temptation, The Complete Serial Series 1-4 (The Temptation Serial Series) Page 8
