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Ben grins at me, having clearly heard my body’s demands. “You hungry?”
“How did you guess?”
He chuckles. “I have a cooler in the car with food for the weekend. I’ll go grab it.”
I follow him out to the main room, and when he steps out the front door, I pick up the other stack of sheets. No reason for me to stand around, doing nothing, when there’s another bed needing to be made.
The second bedroom is smaller, and there’s only a twin bed. I feel bad that, even though I’m almost a foot shorter than Ben, he’s giving me the larger bed. Maybe, before the night is done, I can convince him to trade with me.
Unlike the bare walls in the larger room, this one has paintings draped all over the place. Even my novice eye can tell these pictures aren’t at the same level of the piece hidden in the closet. They’re still very nice, but the detail doesn’t seem to be as sharp, and the perspective in a few is a bit awkward. I imagine a younger Ben sitting in front of these canvases, working to match the advanced techniques of his grandfather. If the paintings in Ben’s childhood bedroom are his, then he’s clearly continued improving.
The car’s trunk slams shut outside. I put aside my thoughts, hurrying to the bed. The sooner the chores are done, the sooner I can eat.
The twin bed is pushed up against the back corner, so after I tuck the fitted sheet’s first three corners in, I have to crawl on the mattress to reach the final one. It’s hard to lift up the mattress and settle the sheet in place while I’m kneeling on it, so I’m still struggling when the front door creaks back open.
I’ve almost got it right when Ben’s voice snaps behind me, “What are you doing?”
15
BEN
The main room is empty when I get back inside, but my bedroom door is open. After I set down the cooler, I move to find Holly, only to see her on all fours on my bed. Her tight black leggings show off the lovely, round shape of her ass, and she’s practically wiggling it in the air as she messes with something.
“What are you doing?” The mental strength I use to keep all my blood from rushing down south also results in my words coming out gruffer than I meant them to.
Obviously surprised by my tone, Holly squeaks and flips over, bouncing when her butt hits the mattress. She slides off, revealing a partially made bed.
“Sorry. Am I not supposed to be in here?” She looks confused, but I’m relieved to see no embarrassment or discomfort.
“No, I’m sorry. You can be in here. I didn’t mean to sound so harsh.”
“Oh, okay. Weirdo.” A small smile touches her mouth before she crawls back onto the bed to finish the job. “Turn on the radiator. It’s freezing in here.”
I gladly follow her orders because I also need to take a moment to adjust myself.
Who knew making a bed could be so sensual?
The way she crawls across the mattress slips right into my fantasies, and now, I’m thinking about me lying on the bed with her crawling toward me, lips curving, eyes heating, silently promising me wicked things.
“Are all these paintings yours?” she asks the question while tucking in the edges of the top sheet. As her fingers move, her eyes meet mine and then flick around to the crowded walls.
I’m not sure how I feel about her seeing them. I painted them when I was a kid, when I was just starting to learn. Not that I’m anywhere near a master now, but I’m much better. But, no matter how many mistakes I made, my grandfather praised me for each piece. Of course, he gave suggestions for improvement, but he insisted they all be hung on the wall to be admired. If Grandpa Ben could love them, then so could I.
“Yep. I started painting when I was around eleven, so they’re not my best. But they’re not too shabby either.”
She’s silent for a moment as she walks around the room, peering at each of them individually. I try not to follow behind her like a praise-seeking ghost.
“Mmhmm. I think it’s this one.” With a little wave, Holly points to one of the smaller canvases.
The winter break during my junior year, my parents let me spend half the time here with my grandpa. The image on the canvas is as close to a copy as I was able to make of the view from my window one early morning. In a vivid contrast, I painted a fat crimson cardinal sitting on a snowy branch, icicles dripping from the underside of the wood.
“You think that one is what?” My stomach clenches, and my nerves are raw as I wait for her answer.
Sharing my artwork isn’t something I often do. Annabelle was a mistake; annoyance was in her eyes when I laid out a few of my sketches for her input. My parents show polite interest but don’t tend to ask questions or encourage the pursuit. At least my tattoo artists gave positive feedback, but I was also paying them to apply my artwork to my body, so it wasn’t like they were unbiased. Grandpa Ben was the only one who met my passion with his own.
I brace for the politeness or disinterest or possibly even the insult that will be injected into Holly’s next words.
“I think it’s my favorite … nope.” She glances around the room, shakes her head, and then hits me with her breath-stealing grin. “I know it is.” With a light touch, she brushes her index finger down the sweep of the bird’s back. “This is just so sweet. And gorgeous. And realistic. Did you actually see this bird?”
