Page 47 of Not Just Gal Pals

Blake looked at me. “Do you really want me to help?”

“Yes, that would be amazing.” If I didn’t get the initial sketch right, my whole painting would be a disaster. I started to get out of my chair, but Blake bent down next to me instead, taking my hand in hers and leaning forward over my shoulder. She was so close I could feel her body emanating heat and smell the faintly sweet scent of her shampoo. A strong urge to pull her around so she straddled me and so I could bite her full lower lip rushed over me. Wait, Jenny. Be patient. Do NOT make a scene by PDAing at a paint and sip.

Patience was not one of my virtues, so to distract myself, I focused on her long, slender fingers holding my hand, guiding the pencil as she deftly sketched Walter’s outline. But then I immediately imagined those fingers cupping my jaw, scraping down my back, unbuttoning my jeans, and—

“There you go!” Blake let go of my hand and stepped back. Hot and flustered, the space she’d been inhabiting suddenly felt extremely empty. I wanted her close to me again.

After a moment collecting myself, I took in the canvas in front of me and blinked. Blake had somehow managed to transform my sketch from tragic Frankenstein-dog to Walter.

“That’s incredible! It actually looks like Walter. Thank you.”

“No problem. Do you want me to get your paints so you can rest your ankle?”

“It’s fine, seriously.” My ankle was still slightly tender, but I was more than capable of getting my own paint. Despite that, I was touched Blake was so concerned about it.

We went up to the front to get paint, and then, as per the instructor’s directions, used the larger paint brush to fill in the background. I tried copying the instructor’s approach of quick, broad brushstrokes. Out of the corner of my eye, Blake appeared to be using the same technique. But when I sat back and looked at both our canvases, Blake’s background was a smooth sky blue, whereas mine was an uneven, lumpy-looking light green. My brushstrokes were clearly visible, but not in a nice, impressionist way—more like a “look at what my toddler painted” kind of way.

“Luckily, Fred is pretty good with dogs, so he and Walter will hopefully get along,” Blake said, putting down her brush. “Walter seems like a pretty relaxed dog—except when his owner is making out, of course.” She grinned.

Oh shit. Walter and cats. “Unfortunately, Walter had a run-in with a cat a few months ago, so I’m not sure... We may need to keep them apart, but that shouldn’t be too difficult.” My words lingered in the air uncomfortably, a reminder that this relationship had an expiration date.

A look I couldn’t read flashed across Blake’s face. “Yeah, of course. There shouldn’t be any reason for them to meet. Um, I might grab another drink. Would you like one?”

“Sure, I’ll come up too.” We walked up to the counter where George was serving and chatted with her before returning to our seats, wine glasses refilled, just in time for the instructor to clap her hands for attention.

“Okay, everyone, your background should have dried, so it’s now time to paint the star of the evening, your pet.”

After the instructor gave some practical advice, we picked up our brushes and started to paint. I kept looking over at Blake, who was engrossed in capturing Fred. Brow furrowed, lips pursed, there was a look of intense concentration on her face as she applied deft brushstrokes to the canvas.

It reminded me of the way she’d looked at my ankle after I’d hurt it on the weekend, and that reminded me of the way she’d looked at me on the couch at my parents’, the way her lips felt on mine, the way her lips felt teasing my nipple. The yearning ache that’d been torturing me each time I had a flashback—which had been a frequent occurrence—reappeared, and I squirmed in my chair. I forced my attention back to the canvas in front of me. Hopefully, painting Walter would have the same effect as Walter had had in real life on Saturday—the dog equivalent of a cold shower.

An hour later, I put down my brush and sighed loudly, staring at my creation. It was bad. Very bad. The wine had not unleashed my creative juices one iota.

As I took in what I’d done, a strong desire to laugh spread from my belly to my chest, until I couldn’t hold it in. “Oh my god,” I said, my voice shaking with laughter. “Poor Walter, what have I done to you?”

Blake, who’d been absorbed with putting the finishing touches on Fred, looked at me, and then at the painting, and then back at me, before howling with laughter.

Struggling to speak, she eventually managed a strangled, “His face…the other day…sex police…” before bursting out laughing again. Her laughter pushed me to the verge of hysterics, tears running down my face as I gasped for air.

I don’t how I’d managed it, but Walter was glaring at us with intense disapproval. Not only that, but he also had one eye that was significantly bigger than the other, and the way I’d painted the hair on his face made it look like he was walking through a wind tunnel. He looked absolutely terrifying.

“I don’t think I’ll be hanging this one up at home,” I gasped through giggles.

George, who’d been strolling around the cafe, admiring everyone’s work, walked over to us. Her eyes widened as she saw my painting. “Oh my,” she managed, clearly lost for words.

Luckily for her, the art instructor joined her, peering over my shoulder. “Very impressive. You know, it reminds me of some of Picasso’s more surrealist works. I love how you’ve played with proportions and angles and created a powerful, unnerving work. Very clever.”

“Thank you.” I sat back in my chair, soaking in the praise and ignoring the fact everything the instructor liked about my work was extremely unintentional.

George and the instructor then turned their attention to Blake’s painting, which was actually incredible. I’d never met Fred, but based on the photo displayed on Blake’s phone, she’d skillfully captured him. It was so realistic it looked like he might jump off the canvas at any minute.

Once they finished showering Blake with compliments, I turned to her.

“Would you mind taking a photo of me next to my masterpiece?” The photo of me post-hike, with a mud facial, had performed surprisingly well, so perhaps this one would too. Although, it wasn’t clear whether unflattering mud facials and hilariously terrible art would help me find new sponsorship deals. There had been radio silence from Serena, and my bank balance was starting to look rather sad.

Shaking off my worries, I handed my phone over to Blake and plastered a smile on my face.

Thirty minutes later, we’d finished our wine, and our paintings were dry enough to be transported home.