My lips form a lopsided grin. “Hmm…dammit. Yeah.” I nod, sure of my assessment. “You seem more like a dammit kind of girl.”
Jenna rolls her eyes. She quickly gathers the rest of her art supplies and tosses them into the box before standing and resting the package on her left hip. “Too bad you don’t know two fucks about me.”
I laugh. I have a major smartass on my hands. That’s okay; it’s just going to take a little longer to lighten this one up a bit.
I’ve been around a lot of women, so I’m able to tell one type apart from another. Jenna’s type is daring. They’re smart, snarky wiseasses. They live for a challenge and love being right. But they’re also—no matter what—women. And women can be sweet-talked at any moment.
I lean into her. She steps back. I smile.
There’s just enough sun to fully take her in. Jenna’s eyes, man, they’re something. It’s not the cute button nose, the soft, plump lips that I had the pleasure of tasting, or the even, golden skin tone that compels me. All of these features are striking, sure, but her eyes… Jenna’s eyes are exotic, stunning. There seems to be an untold story hidden behind those large, almond-shaped beauties. The mystery of those eyes…
I lean my head in close to her. Really close. Jenna’s lashes flutter, with wide eyes stunned. An extensive grin spreads across my face. “Ah, but if my memory serves me correctly, I know exactly how you taste.” Her breath catches; she seems to be at a loss for words. Score. I lift my hand and twirl one of the paintbrushes I’m still holding. “And it seems to me that I just learned you like to paint.” Her eyes narrow and her nostrils lightly flare as she snatches the brush out of my hand. She opens her mouth to say something but shuts it when we hear someone else call my name.
“Logan?” Bryson walks up beside us. Eyes still on Jenna, I straighten my shoulders, flash her a knowing grin, and then turn to face my cousin.
“What’s up?”
He raises a questioning brow and glances over at Jenna. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Let’s get to work.” I clasp his shoulder and start walking, guiding him toward the site.
“What was that about?” he asks quietly.
I turn my head and look at Jenna who’s still standing there breathing heavily with the box glued to her hip. I wink at her and turn right back around. “Nothing. I was just helping her with a few things she accidently dropped.”
He grips my shoulder and leans in. “Logan, not here. This is work. Keep it like that. You understand?”
I shrug off his hold. I know what he means. I don’t like it, but I understand. “Yeah, I understand.”
It’s not like we’d have more than just that one kiss on her front porch anyway.
Logan looks back at me as he walks away with the other contractor. He shoots me a wink before turning his attention back to the path. “Nothing. I was just helping her with a few things she accidently dropped,” I hear him say.
Exactly. Nothing is going on between us, and Logan better keep that in mind the next time he invades my personal space. A few days ago, I asked for it; I knew what I was getting myself into. Well, I wasn’t expecting for his kiss to be so powerful and scorching hot. Still, that was on my terms. I was in control. Sort of. I couldn’t foresee that I would enjoy the taste of him, the smell of him, the way he held me firmly against his chest, how strong his arms felt wrapped securely around me, or how, for a short moment within that one kiss, I forgot who I was. The world around us was completely still. I was lost in the arms of a complete stranger. That’s what bothers me most: him. He bothers me. I know nothing about him, so how the hell could he make me feel so alive, so at peace, so…safe?
It’s infuriating, not to mention unrealistic. The whole thing must have been a fluke brought on by the anxiety of everything that occurred prior to seeing him: the scene in Dr. Rosario’s office the day before, losing the bracelet, him diving into the pool, Matthew walking up when he was the last person in the world I wanted to see. Logan was there, and I took advantage of that by kissing him. But I kissed him to get rid of Matthew; I didn’t realize kissing him would rid me of all my thoughts as well.
The stubble of his growing beard was rough, yet the kiss felt soft.
His arms were confident, yet I felt vulnerable in his hold.
His touch was unfamiliar, yet it felt right within the split seconds of that kiss.
The memory shivers through me. I shake it off, adjust the box in my hands, and continue on my route toward the shed.
Thirty minutes later, I’m standing before three easels, all holding a different canvas painting. Old ones, of course, since I still can’t find the desire to actually create anything. Maybe by taking time to admire my previous work, I’ll find a sense of inspiration again. All three of the pieces in front of me have a sacred place in my heart. Each has its own story, its own venture and journey, which represents a specific time and place in my life.
My eyes settle on the first one and I chuckle softly. It’s one of my very first pieces. For my tenth birthday, my father purchased my first art set, complete with several sized canvases, paintbrushes, and colors.
As any little girl would, I hugged my father tightly, shouted my thanks, and ran to my room to begin my artistic adventure. I was never a pink hearts and flowers kind of girl, so hours later, I presented him with what I thought at the time was a masterpiece. Splashes of red and orange with swirls of grey and blue colored the canvas. My father ogled the small painting with seriousness reserved for courtrooms and boardrooms. I stood before him with my hands clenched behind me, rocking in place. The waiting was excruciating for a ten-year-old. I remember thinking: Will he like it? Does he think it’s hideous? Am I good enough? Those feelings instantly faded the moment my father looked at me with wide brown eyes and a genuine smile. “It’s the best painting I’ve ever seen.”
I doubt it was the best, but it made my heart warm at the thought. A month before that same birthday, he took me to an art show where I witnessed the artist create her work from the start. Brooke was sick with a cold and unfortunately stayed home. My father held my hand as I watched closely with wide eyes from behind a rope. My mother stood beside my father with her hands folded neatly before her. The artist, in her safe, small circle, stared at the canvas intensely for what seemed like hours. Then she began to scream and shout, dipping the brushes into different colored containers and splashing them against her large canvas.