Page 95 of Playing Mr. Perfect

“Dad to the rescue. What did you draw?”

“The lab he made me in the loft. It made me happy, and I didn’t have to compare a dog or landscape to anyone else’s drawing, because nobody else drew my lab.”

“How’d it come out?”

“It was pretty spectacular, if I do say so myself. I got an A, but more importantly, I learned a valuable lesson about not comparing myself to other people. That lab made me happy, and I’m sure that’s why I was able to draw it so well using words. I went from dreading the drawing to creating tangles of wires from the word wire written over and over, and fitting all the letters of microscope into the drawing of one.” I set down my paintbrush. “But this is not going to get me an A.” I hold up my painting.

“What are you talking about? That’s fantastic. I’m framing that sucker and putting it up on my wall.”

“Yeah, right.” I set it back down. “Let me see yours.”

“Okay, but it’s not nearly as good as yours.”

He holds up his painting, and my jaw drops. He painted me, and it’s really good. In it, I’m smiling, and it looks like my eyes are, too. My hair is tousled, and it cascades over my shoulders in several shades of golden brown that look just like my real hair, right down to my natural blond highlights.

“Clay, you’re really talented, but you were supposed to paint the flowers.”

“I painted what makes me happy.”

I get all warm and squishy inside. “Where did you learn to paint like that?”

“My mom taught me. I think it was out of necessity.”

“Why?”

“She said I used to wake Noah from his naps because I was too rambunctious, and she figured out early on that if I had a project that took a lot of focus, I’d stick with it until I nailed it.”

“That’s another thing we have in common.”

“Sure is. When Noah went down for a nap, that became my painting time. She’d set up pictures of football fields, football games, the players, and I’d paint them.”

“It’s amazing that you can still do it so well.”

“I never stopped. When I can’t sleep, it’s my fallback to get my brain to settle down.”

“How come you didn’t mention it as a hobby when I asked if you were crafty?”

He shrugs. “I don’t consider it a hobby. It’s more of a vice.”

“That’s one heck of a vice.” I walk over to admire his painting. “Can I have that painting?”

“It’ll cost you.” He pulls me into a kiss. His phone chimes, and he pulls it out of his pocket, glancing at the screen. “It’s Seth. I was on the phone with him asking for pointers for writing your ad when you came out to the lobby last night. I forgot to call him back.”

“You called your brother for help with my ad?”

“Yes. I wanted to write the best ad I could, and he’s an expert at hiring people.”

My chest warms at that. “You did that for me? That’s so sweet.”

“I’d do anything for you.” He reads the text, then turns the phone toward me.

I’m still hung up on what he said, but I force myself to focus and read his brother’s text.

Seth: Still need help with that ad, or did Pepper realize you can barely spell your own name?

“What? Give me that.” I take his phone and thumb out, Hi Seth, this is Pepper. Not only is Clay smart, but look what he painted. I take a picture of Clay’s painting and send it with the message. Clay’s phone chimes a minute later.

Seth: How much did he pay you to say he’s smart?