“Whatever gives me enough energy to deal with the store by day and paint by night.”
I arched my eyebrows. “You need a lot of protein. How do you manage to do it all?”
She sighed. “Caffeine and bills that must be paid every month. Sometimes, being a grownup sucks.”
I took a sip of coffee. “Why don’t you hire someone to manage the store so you can focus on your art?”
“I’ve thought about it, but… I don’t know how the art thing will turn out.”
“Your art is great, Jesse. I’m not just saying that. I loved it before I met you, when I saw your paintings in your father’s apartment. You’re good.”
She looked away with a small smile. “Thanks.”
I tsked. “You still don’t believe me. You suck at receiving compliments.”
She ducked her head, laughing softly. “That I do.”
“Do you have a studio?” I sniffed the air, picking up a whiff of paint and paint thinner. “I’m guessing you do some of your painting here.”
“I do all of my work here. No point in renting another space when sales are iffy.”
I perked up, genuinely excited. “You paint here? Can I see your studio? Or are you one of those mad artists who won’t let me see their work unless I take a blood oath?”
She laughed and pushed back her chair. “I’ve been called eccentric, but I can show you my work without having to kill you... I think.”
I followed her into the small extra bedroom, my flip-flops padding against the wooden floor. Jesse was barefoot and looked completely at ease. Her toes—neatly painted in a dark, almost wicked red—peeked out with every step, the color bold against her pale skin. Even her walk was sexy. Her feet could model for foot porn and win awards.
She opened the door and invited me inside.
“Careful, it’s super small,” she warned. “And don’t be shocked by the mess.”
I stepped inside reverently, as though I was stepping into a museum. Hell, the Louvre had nothing on this place.
Light spilled in through the wide windows, catching on scattered jars of brushes, tubes of paint, charcoal crayons and other art supplies. It should’ve felt chaotic, but instead it was… alive. Every surface carried proof of her hands, her time, her focus.
There were paintings everywhere, from finished watercolors to barely started charcoal sketches, and empty frames she hadn’t had a chance to use yet.
I drifted toward a set of canvases propped against the wall. Four women stared back at me, each one cloaked in a season.
I crouched down, closer. “These are…” My throat tightened. What could I say? Words like beautiful or amazing felt cheap in this place.
Spring was all blush pinks and new greens—like something half-born, reaching for sunlight. Summer burned gold and blue, daring you not to look away. Autumn was fire, a hundred shades of red and orange fighting for dominance. Winter shimmered pale and cold, but not lifeless. There was something fierce in her, a quiet strength beneath the frost.
I swallowed hard. “These aren’t just paintings, Jesse. You’ve turned time into people. You’ve coded emotion into color.” I gave a soft laugh at myself. “Sorry, that’s the engineer in me talking. But damn, you see the world differently. And you make other people see it, too.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
This time I knew she meant it.
“Those need to be wrapped and shipped to the people who ordered them online,” she explained.
“They’re incredible.” I reached out, stopping just short of touching Summer. “Are they unique?”
“Each of my paintings is unique. I never make duplicates.”
“How can you bear to part with them?”
She walked over and knelt on the floor next to me. “I can’t say it’s easy. I’m in love with each piece I create, but art is meant to be shared. And sometimes, it even pays the bills. Those are the first items in my new collection.” She pointed to the opposite wall. “I want to try a solo exhibit this year.”
