Fortunately, Fletcher took the kids to the movies, so as I walk around the big house, I know my presence will go undetected. I’ll worry about my exit plan later.
Arlo is outside his place waiting for me. He looks a little nervous, which, of course, makes me want to kiss him even more, but first I need to get inside before I forget myself and do it right on Fletcher’s lawn where anyone can see us.
“The um…entrance to my place is this way.” He leads me to a door I didn’t notice the last time I was here. The front of the building doesn’t have any windows, just the double doors to the workshop, so I assumed Arlo lived in there, maybe in a small room off the main part.
When he takes me up the stairs to an open space with wall-to-wall windows and a view of the field behind the house, I’m speechless.
“I never would’ve believed you if you’d told me this was here,” I say.
“I know, right? This used to be Fletch’s studio. It was quite bare when I moved in, but I’ve slowly made it into a home. And it’s nice that I get all the privacy I want because the windows don’t face the house.”
Him mentioning privacy gives me all the right kinds of ideas, but I don’t want to scare him by coming on too strong…again…so I look around at the art he has on his walls.
“Did you do this?” I point to a painting of a sunset on fabric held by a wooden frame.
“Not that one.”
I inspect the next piece, which is an intricately woven fabric with a colorful pattern.
“This one?”
“Nope.”
“Which ones are yours?” I look at him, and he’s leaning against the side of his couch, looking more delectable than anyone has any right to be.
“Do you want to see my art.”
Now I’m confused. Arlo takes a few slow steps toward me that make my stomach fill with butterflies.
“You want to know why I felt free when I picked up a brush for the first time?” He runs his hands down my arms until he’s holding mine.
I nod.
“Can I show you?”
I nod again, and he pulls me over to the couch and straddles me. It’s a strange position because he’s a little taller than me. He reaches behind himself and opens a small drawer on his coffee table, taking out a silk scarf.
“Do you trust me?” he asks, staring into my eyes with so much vulnerability that I’m not sure if he wants to blindfold me or me to blindfold him.
“I trust you.”
He pulls my shirt over my head. I try to do the same to him, but he grabs my hands.
“Not yet.” Then he covers my eyes with the scarf until all I can see are bright stars dancing under my eyelids. It’s not completely dark, but I can’t see anything.
“What should I do with my hands?” I ask.
He takes them and places them over his legs. I want to touch him, run my hands over his thighs, and see if the bulge I felt earlier is still there, begging for my attention, but this is Arlo’s show. I need to remember I’m just privileged to have been invited.
I feel him move as if he’s preparing something. I hear the sound of things clinking against glass or metal.
“The first time I picked up a paintbrush, I felt free because, for the first time in my life, there was no one giving me directions or telling me how I should do things. I got to make my own choices.”
I gasp from the power of his words but also because there’s something on my chest. I try to identify it. It’s soft and wet. I expect the wetness to drip down, but it doesn’t.
“Are you…painting me?” I ask.
“I want to show you what I see when I look at you.”
