Dream On(55)

Lurching to his feet with his back to me, the man smacks wet sand off his shorts. “Fine. I’m fine.” He looks up.

“Perry?” I gasp.

His cheeks flame pink. “Oh, Cass. It’s you. I’m so sorry… I didn’t know anyone was back here or that they’d be…” He swallows.

Heat scorches my face. “It’s fine. No big deal.”

Behind him, the setting sun reflects off the water, washing his features in golden light. Rubbing the back of his neck, he offers me a lopsided grin. “I didn’t see anything. I promise.” With his arm lifted, his short-sleeved denim shirt rides up, revealing a hint of flat, smooth stomach. Saliva fills my mouth and I swallow.

Okay, Perry is low-key officially hot… so what? It’s a dispassionate, empirical observation. It doesn’t mean anything. Acknowledging the fact that he’s physically attractive—and based on those muscles, jacked to boot—doesn’t mean I like him. I’m simply appreciating the male form. Anyone with an artistic eye would do the same.

A shrill eeep-eeep-eeep cuts through the silence, and a small brown bird with a white chest and dark stripes zips through the air, dive-bombing Perry’s head. He ducks.

“Watch out for the killdeer. I think you’re near her nest,” I say.

“I think you’re right.” Eyeing the slope, he begins traversing the incline’s loose scree, the eeep-eeep-eeep of the bird spurring him on. I take a small bottle of hand sanitizer out of my bag and quickly squirt some of the clear, potent gel onto my palms and rub them together. By the time I stash it away, Perry’s almost at the top of the hill. He grins at me as he takes his last step, but his foot slips. I lunge for him automatically and yank him up by the shirt. I pull a little too hard, and he tumbles into me. “Oof.” I stumble back, and he steadies me by the shoulders. The pressure of his palms cause sparks to flit around my belly like grasshoppers.

Backing up, I clear my throat. “Devin will be surprised you’re still here. We all thought you left.”

“I decided to take a walk.”

“Thank you for the paint set, by the way,” I blurt. “And the easel.”

His eyes twinkle. “You found it then.”

“It was kind of hard to miss. Where did you even get one—an easel like that?”

“The back of my closet.”

“It was yours?”

“My mom got it for me. I went through a painting phase when I was in high school before realizing I have zero talent for studio art,” he explains. “The kit’s been collecting dust ever since. I wanted you to have it.”

How do you express gratitude for a gift that’s unlocked a part of yourself you’ve suppressed for years? I lick my lips. “Thank you. It was a really thoughtful gesture.”

Perry’s entire posture seems to relax. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m glad you didn’t leave. I have something for you.” Hoisting off my pack, I unzip it and pull out the small, thin canvas I brought on the off-chance I’d run into him. Before I can chicken out, I flip the canvas around and thrust it toward him. “It’s a thank-you gift.”

Lips parting in surprise, he takes it from me. He studies the painting for so long a bead of sweat trickles down my neck. Every beat of my heart echoes in my ears, and I resist the urge to snatch the canvas and chuck it into the lake.

I can file an appeal, draw up a contract, and argue the merits of a case without blinking an eye, but I’d forgotten how soul-crushingly terrifying it can be to share my art. How personal it is, like revealing a little piece of my soul.

“Hope,” he finally murmurs, eyes widening. “You painted the rainstorm you picture when you think of hope.”

“That’s right.” Edging closer until we’re side by side, I peer over his shoulder at my creation—at the moody cerulean and indigo clouds, the abstract gray-pink raindrops giving way to a hazy golden sunrise.

“Cass, this is beautiful. I… I can’t keep this.”

He tries to give the painting back to me, but I push it toward him. My fingers brush his, and the sensation burrows into my blood.

“You were the one who encouraged me to take the leap and start painting again. I’d forgotten how much I love it. How it makes me feel… alive. I painted this the night I found your easel on my porch. I want you to have it.”

“Thank—” His voice cracks. “Thank you.”

His clear emerald eyes meet mine, and my calves tense. We’re close—only a foot of space between us. At this distance, Perry’s woodsy scent dances across my senses and my head feels curiously light. Like I’m standing on the pinnacle of a mountain or poised to deliver the closing argument to a jury, heart pounding with anticipation.

Chin quavering, I step back and swing my bag onto my back. “You’re welcome. I would have thanked you sooner, but I don’t have your number.”

“Let’s remedy that.” Tucking the painting under his arm, he takes out his cell and taps the screen several times. From inside my bag, my phone beeps. “I just AirDropped you my contact info. Feel free to call me anytime. I mean, if you ever need anything, or whatever.” Scratching his nose, he looks away. “I bet Devin’s missing you. Don’t you think you should head back?”