“When do we start?” I ask.
“We’re just waiting for Fletcher.”
The mention of his name makes my belly tighten. “Any idea what the mural will look like?” I ask.
“Fletcher has a sketch,” Ellis says.
A moment later, Fletcher walks toward us with an art tube under one arm and a fold-up table under the other. His hair is down but tucked behind his ear on one side. It makes him look youthful.
He’s wearing black paint-stained jeans and a T-shirt that saysI also paint on canvas.
I wonder if he owns any clothes that aren’t covered in paint, and then I remember the fitted slacks and shirt he wore at the auction.
He sets up the table with Melodie’s help while I stay back, semi-hiding behind other parents. When he removes the sketch from the tube, everyone gathers close in anticipation.
Fletcher looks up, and that’s when he sees me. He doesn’t falter or freeze, just gives me a warm smile devoid of expectations. It tells me that, despite what happened on Sunday, we’re good.
Maybe it’s all, once again, in my head, but I smile back and watch as he unveils his vision for the mural.
I’ve only seen the painting he did for Sage’s parents, but I can tell Fletcher is a talented artist. His sketch captures everything we want to achieve for the Spring Fair.
There are children, teachers, and parents, along with the school gates, books, and drawings.
“This is just the first draft,” he says, tying his hair in a messy bun. “The final draft will be acrylic on canvas, and I’m donating it to the school. I was thinking of turning the wall into a paint-by-numbers project, which would make it easy for the kids to help.”
“I love that idea,” Ray says.
“Imagine painting a small section of the wall, coming back years later, and seeing it there. The kids will love it,” Charlie says.
Fletcher beams under everyone’s compliments, but his eyes keep finding their way to mine.
“I think it’s perfect,” I say.
He rubs the back of his neck, where a small tinge of pink appears. With his hair up, Fletcher is a lot easier to read.
“Okay, okay, enough procrastination,” Ellis says, and the crowd disperses toward the buckets and mops.
I hang back a little until everyone’s out of earshot.
“Do you really like it?” he asks.
“I do. Like I said, it’s perfect.”
Fletcher glances at the group. “We should probably join them.”
I smile. “Yeah, let’s do this.”
15
FLETCHER
It’simpossible to take my eyes away from Harrison as he works the mop up and down the wall. The way his muscles flex and his jeans cling to his butt when he moves is just sinful.
My eyes land on his hands, gripping the handle tight, and I can’t help thinking back to our encounter in the studio. The way he kissed me first, taking charge. I was a puddle of paint squished out of a tube and ready to be used in any way Harrison wanted.
God, it felt so good. Those strong hands touched me with so much confidence and unreserved need.
Harrison is like one of those Saturday newspaper puzzles that always make me feel stupid when I try to figure them out. Except there aren’t any clues for the Harrison puzzle.
