His lips twitched into a smile. “Correct. That’s what we’re going to do.”
I frowned, confused. “You want me to run laps around my apartment?”
Landon rolled his eyes. “No, Picasso, I want you to warm up by painting something silly. Something without any pressure.” He dipped his brush into a random color. “I’ll join you.”
I hesitated, fingers hovering over the paintbrushes. “But what do I paint?”
Landon pressed a finger to his lips. “No questions. No thinking. Just painting.”
He leaned over his own canvas, paintbrush thick with yellow paint. I glanced at my empty canvas and considered playing a game I always did when I started a new piece.
It involved assessing the entirety of the canvas, imagining the final image, and visualizing the layers needed to get there. Then I would consider composition, mood, and colors. Once I had the roadmap, I knew where to start.
Perhaps I didn’t need a roadmap for this, though.
Don’t think, Kira.
Challenging advice for a girl who overthought everything, but I’d give it a shot.
My shirt was the color navy, so I started with blue. After a few brushstrokes, I turned toward Landon, trying to peek at what he was painting. Probably a kickball.
“No peeking!” He blocked my vantage point with his arm, focused on his canvas.
Something stuttered in my chest as the sunlight from the window crept over his face, illuminating the slope of his shoulders, the hints of dark amber in his hair. For the first time since Landon returned, I took notice of how much he’d turned into a man.
Tanned, muscled, corded with sexy veins. He may have left kickball and baseball in the past, but it looked like he set aside plenty of time for the gym. Probably bench pressed twice my body weight. He had taken off his hoodie before starting to paint, and the fine cotton of his white shirt was thin enough that I could see the planes of his muscles underneath it.
He smelled so nice, of coffee and a hint of bourbon, that I got the insane urge to press my face into his chest. Or worse, to pressmy mouth to the hollow of his throat and see if he tasted as good as he smelled.
An electric shiver ghosted down my spine. God, Landon was here, trying to help me work on the art residency application, and here I was lusting after him. It had been a while since I really, truly lusted after someone, but based on the ache between my thighs, my body hadn’t forgotten how.
Landon paused. He set down his brush and looked at me with warmth in his eyes. Warmth I’d seen plenty of in the past but hadn’t reappeared just yet. To have it now, to be able to drink it in, felt almost sinful. Like I was becoming a glutton, gorging myself on the care he held just for me. I wanted to stuff myself to the brim with it until I couldn’t breathe or think again.
What’s happening to me?
“Are you okay?” he asked tenderly.
I cleared my throat and turned back to my canvas. “Yeah.” A few absent-minded brushstrokes. “I’m fine.”
The weight of his gaze—almost physical, warm and rough against my neck—lingered for a few more seconds until he returned to painting. A small sigh of relief escaped me. I needed the break to finish my painting, which now looked like it was turning into a sunflower.
“Well, wait until you see my masterpiece. You can brag that you knew me before I got famous.”
I laughed. “Don’t forget me when you’re in galleries all over the globe.”
“Never.”
A few minutes later, we held up our canvases for the grand reveal.
My sunflower wasn’t my best work—some of the petals were uneven, and the shading was off—but it didn’t need to be perfect. Landon, on the other hand, had painted a bowl oflemons, bright and slightly messy, like he hadn’t overthought a single brushstroke. Or given it any thought at all.
“Feeling tart?” I teased.
He laughed. “I could always go for lemonade.”
We set our canvases down, and I turned to him. “Thanks for doing this with me.”
“Of course. It was fun.” Then, after a pause, “Even if someone might think you painted with a two-year-old.”
