The owner, Paulo, wishes me a year full of blessings before the staff disperses and I wave to my townsfolk family, many of whom I saw at church earlier, and say my thank yous as if they didn’t sing to me during our discipleship class this morning.
And as we’re leaving, I overhear Sam whisper to Ethan behind me, “Do you think she’ll remember him?”
I freeze, and Ethan runs into me. “Meme, what are you—”
“Remember who?” I demand as I spin on my heel, rogue thoughts of Ashton being someone I should remember flitting across my vision. The coincidences are too… coincidental.
“Oh, uh,” Ethan searches for words, but Sam fills in for him.
“Bryan, of course,” she says through a tight smile. I want to question her further, but the couple steps around me and bolts for Ethan’s truck.
Excerpt from Esme’s Novel
Noah stands on a pedestal in the middle of the room in nothing but his cross necklace, braided brown bracelet, and bright orange swim trunks that do a stellar job of highlighting his bronze skin.
He’s flexing his arms, his head turned off to the side in a lifted tilt, looking as proud and smug as ever that he was the man voted to be today’s muse.
I bite my bottom lip and try not to remember that twenty other women, primarily of the elder category, are ogling him alongside me as we paint his sculpted figure onto our canvases. I’ve never been much of a painter, but when Noah suggested we attempt the class today, I shrugged and said, “Why not.” I’m Island Esme, after all. Bold. Brave. Trying new things. Such as wild vacation romances.
Regretting the decision to do this activity as my face flames from drawing his sculpted body, I make the impromptu decision to give him an orange superhero cape to match his swim trunks.Grinning, I lift my brush from the color palette on the stool beside me and get to work.
I add the cape, which I label with his hero symbol: NAP. Yes, he is now Noah Ashley Prewitt (it will be funny to see how he reacts to me giving him my last name). His superpower? Naps! And boy, oh boy… he cuddles some type of way. It might secretly be a power of his.
Swatting the thoughts away, I examine the canvas.
I only have one thing left to paint onto him.
And if I want to get them right, I need to have a closer look.
Setting my brush down, I walk toward Noah, who senses me and motions to the studio director that he is taking one of his allotted breaks from posing. His white smile is brilliant as he runs his hand through those silky black curls. And I reflect upon how those curls feel caressing the bare skin of my neck and shoulders when he kisses me there.Heaven have mercy,I plead.This man will be the unraveling of me.
When I’m close enough, he grabs my hips and pulls me in for a deep but audience-appropriate kiss.
I swear I hear a younger woman’s disgruntled sigh from somewhere off to the side, so I snake my arms around his waist and enjoy him a little longer.
“I’m going to have to beat these women off of you with my paintbrush,” I jest, sliding my fingers down his chest. I still can’t get over how touching him like he’s mine comes naturally. Instinctively. As if he were made for me to touch him. “And you might have to reassure some of the men in the room that you aren’t after their ladies.”
Noah chuckles, kissing my forehead. “I think I just made it very clear where my affections lie, sweetheart. Your hands alone belong on this body. Whenever you’d like to put them on it.” He winks, and I feel that familiar tightness in my stomach. These comments he makes… They’re so bad.But oh so good…
I hum as my mind derails from the PG-13 level thoughts, preening under his gaze. It’s adoring and smoldering. I’ve never met a man who could simultaneously look at me as if he wanted to cuddle me and devour me at the same time.
No, Esme. Get control of your thoughts. He’s not yours to think of that way.
I came over here on a mission, anyway.
“I’m almost finished, but I need to add your tattoos.” As I stare at his tatted arm, I’m nervous. Tattoos are personal. His look like there’s a story to tell, and while I’m starving to know every detail, I don’t want to push too far. “Can I see them?”
He steps away from me, and without hesitation, he holds out his left arm for me to analyze. I trace the intertwining tendrils from the top of his shoulder down to his wrist, realizing it’s made of briars and ivy. Roses with larger thorns are interspersed throughout the jumbled briar patches, and on the inside of his bicep, right before the crease of his elbow, is a small cross.
It’s intricately stunning, and it reminds me of how beautiful things bloom from the bad. A Bible verse about how God makes everything beautiful in His time comes to mind, and a small smile tugs at my lips.
Noah speaks in a whispered voice. “I got this tattoo when I was twenty after my mom lost her battle with cancer. I can’t believe it’s been eight years without her.”
My heart falters as I stare into his haunted eyes.
“She used to always say that there is beauty in the bramble.” Noah smiles sadly, and I match his expression, taking his large hand in mine. “Every time she said those words, this is what I thought of.” He looks at the tattoo. “So after the Lord called her home, my siblings and I got matching tattoos to remind us of her.” He grins more fully, crinkles forming in the corner of his eyes. “I’m the only one who got a full sleeve, though. Used to jokewith my brother and sister, saying it made me the favorite child. I could picture Mom rolling her eyes in heaven.”
I don’t know his mother, but I imagine she had so much love to pour out onto this man for him to be the way that he is today. I wish I would have known her. “Tell me more about her. About your entire family.” His hazel eyes glow, but then he glances around the room, and I remember we are in an art studio with other men and women, who are anxiously waiting to get back to work painting the Greek god I have the privilege of now knowing one shade better.
