No Perfect Hero(12)

Or at least not opened his jerk-mouth, so I could’ve quietly enjoyed a little indecency.

Leave it to the gorgeous ones to talk too much.

I can’t stand Warren.

He’s surly. He’s authoritative. He’s presumptuous. He’s rude. He’s –

Taking up far too much of my headspace, apparently.

Because I should be thinking about the shades of blue gouache paint I need to capture the colors of hazy sky around a distant mountain peak. Not about the particular shade of blue Warren’s eyes were this morning when he’d been half asleep, his gaze dark and smoky.

Definitely not about the tousled hair falling into his eyes and the morning sun licking tawny gleams over the hard chisels of his bare chest.

God.

Settle down, girl.

There’s a minor in the room.

And Tara’s busy tugging at my shirt, pointing at a box of nearly two hundred Prismacolor pencils in a rainbow palette of bright shades.

I eye her with a sigh. She’s too much like me at that age.

At ten years old, I picked up lots of things and tried them once and put them down before moving to the next – but I’m still crunching the numbers in my bank account. We're running on a tight budget.

But it’s not fair to stock up on art supplies for myself just because I’m staying here out of some spiteful whim, and then tell Tara she can’t have this one little thing.

Besides.

When I was a little girl, the thing that made me finally sit still and stop bouncing from hobby to hobby was a box of pencils. They came in various lead hardnesses and textures, a gift from a fourth grade teacher who admired the little doodles I left down the margins of my assignments.

Ms. Brandy hadn’t been able to get me to pay attention in class, but when she put those pencils in my hand? Suddenly, I found something that could keep my complete and utter focus like nothing else.

Maybe the Prismacolors will be that for Tara.

And if not, she deserves the same chance I got to try things again and again until she finds her one true love in a pencil.

I offer her a smile, shifting my load of canvases, paint tubes, and brushes to one arm so I can squeeze her hand. “You’re sure that’s the one you want? Not the markers or the pen sets?”

She shakes her head. “I like the way the pencils look soft when you color with them,” she says. “I want to try that.”

“Okay, baby.” I grip her hand a little tighter, encouraging her. “You’ll need a sketchbook to go with them, then. The kind that binds at the top. Spiral rings are easiest for pencil drawing. Go pick out one you like.”

Her face brightens, her eyes widening, and she hugs me tight enough to almost make me drop everything. “Thanks, Auntie Hay!” she cries before racing off, leaving me watching her with a fond sigh.

I really do love that girl.

I don’t see enough of her, living so far away from my sister, but maybe once I settle in Chicago, I’ll make a point to take more time off to see family.

And she’ll grow out of the nickname one day.

One day.

I turn to look for a few more things – a paint scraper, a little blending toner. But I can’t seem to find the register when Tara comes bouncing back with her box of colored pencils and a large spiral bound sketchbook clutched to her chest.

Then I see the wooden sign over the open doorway. It's hand-painted, pointing to the attached barn that looks to be some kind of...horse shop? Farm shop?

They have bags of seed and bales of hay, at least. It smells warm and earthy and just dusty enough to tickle my nose.

Pay inside, the sign proclaims, so I rearrange my armful and head through the door to do just that, stepping from the tile over the threshold onto a packed dirt floor.

That's how I bump right into a broad barrel chest, hard enough to send me rocking back with a squeak, clutching at my things.

Bad move. It just makes them go flying out of my arms like I’d squeezed a water balloon and sent it popping everywhere.

“Oops,” a kindly, thoughtful male voice says, catching me by the shoulders and steadying me. “Here. Let me help.”

I look up into blue eyes and for a moment think it’s Warren – but Warren’s eyes are a darker, stormier blue. More passionate and hot and wild.

These eyes are paler, softer, haunted by a quiet exhaustion that strikes me before I even fully take him in. He’s tall, older but not quite old, with the same hard-cut ex-military build that makes me think of Warren as well. His ash-blond hair dips with a reserved smile he offers me as he drops down to one knee to start gathering my things.

“Sorry,” I manage, sinking down to help, while Tara stands over us, watching curiously. “I should’ve been looking where I was going.”

“Kinda hard to with all that piled in front of your face, I’d say.” There’s a soft drawl to his voice.

I wouldn’t quite call it Southern, more like that particular flavor of Pacific mountain country you find in Oregon or California. With a chuckle, he helps me gather my spilled paints and supplies into the back side of a canvas, then frowns at the canvas itself. “Aw, looks like I got this one dirty. I’ll pay for it with the owner if you want to grab a fresh one.”

“Oh, no, it’s okay.” I shake my head, rising to my feet and smiling. “Canvases aren’t hard to clean. I’ll just buy this one, but thank you so much Mr...?”