Page 143 of The Substitute Fiancée

“Start with the front. We’ll do the sides later. Brushstrokes should follow the grain of the wood.”

I focus on the task, applying myself as if my life depended on it. Sometimes she places her hand over mine, guiding my movements. Her skin is warm, her touch alive.

“There,” she says. “Don’t overload the brush or it’ll drip. Once this is done, we’ll let it dry before painting the rest.”

I follow her instructions, trying not to get distracted by her scent or the warmth of her body so close to mine. When the urge to pull her against me becomes too strong, I step back, pretending to inspect our work.

As we paint, a strange intimacy settles between us. Working side by side, sharing a task, moving toward the same goal. At first we barely speak, then slowly we begin trading memories.

“One time, Oliver tried to teach me how to build things,” I tell her. “I must have been nine or ten. He wanted us to build a cabin in the backyard.”

I dip my brush into the paint, smiling at the memory.

“I was so focused that I screwed planks onto the door frame… with Oliver still inside.”

Sam stops painting and looks at me, laughing.

“No way. You locked him inside the cabin?”

“For two hours. My drill battery was dead. We had to wait for it to recharge so I could unscrew the boards and let him out.”

She bursts out laughing—a full, unrestrained laugh that lights up her face.

“I can picture it.”

“He never forgave me. Ever since, he tells anyone who’ll listen that I can’t be trusted with tools.”

She laughs again, then her expression softens, something gentler passing through her eyes.

“You’re lucky,” she says more quietly, “to have shared that kind of closeness with your brother.”

The silence returns, soft, comfortable.

Sam goes back to painting, and I follow suit. Our hands move in rhythm. From time to time, our eyes meet, hold for a beat too long, then drift away.

The intimacy grows like that, slowly. With every brushstroke. Every half-smile. Every shared silence.

And I realize that maybe this is what rebuilding looks like. No grand gestures. No promises. Just being there. Painting frames side by side, sharing memories, and slowly relearning how to be together.

*

Around seven p.m., Mara and Emelyne arrive with Matthieu and two of his colleagues, Jules and Axel. After quick introductions, we get to work.

Sam explains what she expects from everyone—who continues with the base coats, who applies the second layer. The mood is light. Jokes fly. Laughter bursts through the room. Sam transforms before my eyes, laughing out loud at every joke.

Jules, the youngest of Matthieu’s colleagues, calls out to Sam.

“So you’re the artist Matthieu can’t stop talking about?” he asks with a charming smile.

“I don’t know if ‘artist’ is the right word,” she replies. “I’m just starting out.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Matthieu cuts in. “Her paintings are incredible.”

“You’ll have to tell me when you’re exhibiting. I’d love to come see your work,” Jules says.

“With pleasure,” Sam replies, smiling.

I don’t know whether she enjoys the attention or simply doesn’t notice it, but suddenly I feel… out of place. I focus on my frame, yet I can’t help watching them. The way he leans toward her to listen more closely. The way she smiles as she explains her technique. The laugh they share when he tries to fix a drip.