Heartbreaker (Unbreakable #1)(69)
Nerves began to ping again as I crossed the hall and opened the door. But when I stepped through and walked farther in, I breathed a sigh of relief. The room was immaculate and bright; light radiated in from three big windows along the back wall. Long folding tables formed two rows five tables deep, a center aisle stretching down between them.
Supplies had already been set out, and I wondered who’d done that. Probably Logan. In front of each chair, items were arranged like place settings at a dinner table. Two brushes on the left, assorted watercolor tubes on the right, a white, round plastic palette in the center, and an empty mason jar in each upper right-hand corner.
“What do you think?”
I jumped at the bass-toned voice an instant before my heart warmed.
Darren.
He stood in the doorway, a forearm braced on each side of the doorframe. His damp gray shirt clung to his sculpted torso. Dark curls of hair stuck to his temples, glistening.
My breath caught at his raw beauty as I crossed the room toward him. “I think it’s amazing. You did this?”
“Yeah. Figured you’d need a hand sorting it all out. There’s other stuff in the boxes in the supply closet. Didn’t know what paper to grab. There are different kinds, but not enough whole pads for everyone.”
As I drew near, his delectable scent hit me—a mixture of his soap and his natural musk.
He took a step back. “Careful. I haven’t showered yet. I’m all sweaty.”
“I don’t care.” I fisted my hands into his shirt over his chest, then pulled him close, standing on tiptoe. He bent down and kissed me, tenderly.
Then I leaned against his side and glanced into the room. “And it’s perfect.”
He kissed my temple, then pushed me forward and swatted my ass. “Go. Help them find their inner artists. I’m heading to shower and then school. Last classes before finals.”
“Really?” I turned as he began to disappear. “I hadn’t realized we were so close to the end of the school year.”
He grabbed the doorframe, popping his head back into view. “Yep. After next Thursday, no more school.”
The finality to his tone struck me. I thought he’d said he had another year. I wondered if his gig with Dino had changed that.
“Good luck, baby. You’ll be awesome.”
My heart warmed at the endearment, the first time he’d called me anything other than “Flash.”
I smiled at him, all my anxiety forgotten. “Thanks.”
He disappeared without another word.
But I felt him there—his support. It lay in plain view in the carefully arranged art supplies. And I was there to support Logan. I’d come today for them.
After assessing the paper situation in the supply closet, I chose a heavier weight better suited for watercolor. I tore off two sheets per student, placing them beside each setting of art supplies. Then I found a large pitcher and wandered the halls until I located a kitchen.
Minutes later, as I filled the last of the mason jars with a few inches of water, after already adding red Solo cups beside them for brush rinsing, my students began to file in. Only seven sat down, Logan at a front table with Carrie right beside her, big Ron across the aisle and a table back from them, and four others spread throughout the room.
After a brief fifteen-minute primer on how to use their palettes and experimenting on their first page with washes and color intensity, we were ready to begin.
“Okay. Now let’s try our hand at painting. There are no rules. Everyone has a different concept of what art is. Express yourself. But I do have a topic. Think of one memory filled with joy. Then paint a single image from it: a trigger for that memory.”
My students nodded then their eyes grew unfocused in thought. Logan stuck the wood end of her paintbrush between her lips. Ron rinsed his brush, squeezed several paint colors into the divots of his palette, then began painting immediately.
At the empty front table, I sat down and stared at the blank page, joining them, imagining a happy moment. Images of Darren flooded my mind: us with our feet on the wall as we listened to drag rhythms, watching fireflies on a warm spring night with anticipation humming through us before our first time, the incredible awe-filled expression on his face as he made love to me…
Yet for some reason, the one moment that stuck in my mind more vivid than the rest was the first time we went on a trail run. At the top of the mountain, I’d raised my arms, energy buzzing through my veins, soul soaring with the wind, and shouted “be the tree” at Darren—at the world.
I’d let go—felt free.
Seconds later, the world showed me my mortality as I hung from a tree branch.
Then Darren saved me.
We’d laid on the ground, me draped over him, and experienced our first intimate moment together.
With a grateful sigh, I began painting that tree branch. I paid special note to its rough bark. With a light touch, I swept arcing lines to create the tufts of soft needles. The branch, true to its original form, remained slender and strong—full of life and lifesaving.
When I finished, I stared at it, remembering the moment with great clarity and fondness. That branch had literally saved me from a potentially fatal fall. Then it swung me into the waiting arms of someone who’d also saved me—who still fought hard to.
My phone buzzed in my back pocket. Unthinking, I pulled it out.