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“Thanks,” I call again, scooping up my drink and turning to nudge a path through the crowd.
Already, my fingers are itching to grip my pencil.
* * *
Sitting in this corner, perched on a tall stool with my sketchbook and lemonade crammed together on a small table, I have a perfect view of Flint’s office door. Sounds good, right?
Nope.
It’s distracting as hell. Every time there’s a flash of movement in the corner of my eye, every time the volume of chatter dips, even for a split second, my chin jerks up and I stare at that door, my sketchbook forgotten.
That squirmy, restless feeling churns in my stomach. I shift on my stool, my lilac t-shirt dress sticking to my back from sweat, and stare at that closed door with dry eyes, desperate for a single glimpse.
It’s never him. Flint may not even be here tonight, but I’m on high alert anyways, struggling to sink into my drawing like I normally do. Guess I’m still on edge after yesterday’s close call.
Flipping to a new page, I gaze down at the snowy blank sheet of paper and try to picture something new to draw; try to imagine the angles, the layout, the style. And I’m surrounded by interesting people who have lived their whole lives in these mountains, all scarred and weather-beaten with a thousand stories to tell, but there’s only one face I can bring myself to draw.
“Tragic,” I murmur to myself, sketching out the profile that is so familiar to me by now. The strong forehead, the slope of his nose, the surprisingly soft mouth above a firm, angular jawline—I see this face every night in my dreams. Every time I close my eyes, there he is.
A glutton for punishment. That’s what my Grandma would call me for this nightly obsessive behavior—and she’d be right. I’m a glutton for punishment, perching on a bar stool each night to draw a man who barely even knows I’m alive.
A wave of homesickness crashes over me, full of fierce longing for a woman who’s been at rest for over a year now, a woman who would talk some sense into me and coax me home. Back to her old-fashioned carpets and weird collection of china figurines, and the scent of baking flapjacks on a Saturday morning.
I squeeze my pencil and box-breathe through the grief.
There is no home, not without my Grandma. So I’ve been cut adrift, free to roam through the mountains for months on end, taking on random art projects like this one on a whim. Safe in the knowledge that no one misses me. No one worries about me being eaten by a bear.
Yikes. Pity party for one, please!
Snatching up my lemonade, I take a big gulp through the paper straw, focusing all my jagged thoughts on the sweetness, the fizzy bubbles, the cool liquid on my tongue. The clink of melting ice cubes against the glass. No room for thoughts; only sensations. This trick sounds cliched, but it works—and after a moment, I’m safely anchored in my body once more, flexing my fingers around my pencil and ready to keep sketching.
Then Flint’s office door opens.
My spine goes rigid. My left leg jiggles on the stool as the boss moves easily through the crowd toward the bar. Drinkers part for him like the red sea, a few old timers clapping Flint on the shoulder as he passes, then close up behind him and go back to their jokes and gossip.
He’s in a charcoal shirt tonight, the color faded by many wears, the sleeves rolled to his elbows and the top two buttons undone at his throat. Plus his usual uniform of leather work boots and old jeans that look loose at first glance, but that hug his strong thighs and toned ass as he moves.
Hoo, boy.
Flint leans across the bar to say something to Tess. She nods and says something back, her chin jerking toward my secret spot at the back of the room. I wrench myself back to my sketchbook, heart hammering in my chest, and I swear to god—I feel Flint’s eyes on me. Feel the heavy warmth of his gaze brushing my cheek, my throat, my arm.
Be cool. Be cool.
Gah! Oh my god.
With clumsy fingers, I flick my sketchbook to an innocent page: the regulars sharing a smoke in the doorway. And just in time, because less than a minute later, a deep voice rumbles by my side.
“What are you working on tonight, Marigold?”
See, I spend so much time staring at this man, but when he comes close to me and strikes up a conversation, I can’t bring myself to look directly at him. It would be like staring at the sun.
“The same drawing as yesterday,” I tell the collar of Flint’s shirt, privately marveling at the sturdy shape of his collarbone. This man is an architectural wonder. “The smokers.”
Flint grunts, and with just that rough sound—it’s like he’s calling me out. Like he doesn’t believe me. My panicked heart slams against my rib cage, gathering speed.
“May I?” he says. A strong, callused hand reaches out, spinning the sketchbook to face him. Shit! I let out the tiniest squeak and grab his wrist.
And—there.
