“And I could say the same about you,” I add.
He nods, then goes quiet, almost like he’s deep in thought again. Or deep in debate. Maybe both? It’s like he’s weighing something, but I don’t know what, so I return to the safer topic.
“So, we have a menu although the recipes will need a little finessing,” I say.
“We have a menu,” he agrees. “Now we just need a space that feels like where you want to hang out.”
“About that. I got the stencil for the mural. I was thinking we should work on it soon. Like tomorrow.”
“Charlotte’s with her mom, and I don’t have a game till the next day.”
“Perfect. We can paint all afternoon,” I say.
“All afternoon,” he repeats, then seems to mull on that word, before adding, “it’ll be adelight.”
Something shifts in his expression as his gaze lingers on me. The wistful emotions vanish. The businesslike intensity disappears too. His eyes are darker, more intense than usual, and they send heat right through me.
I think about that look in his eyes after I return home. I think about him all night when I’m alone. All night, as I wait far too eagerly to paint the mural with him. All night, as I wish the morning would hurry.
17
WET PAINT
MABEL
Repeat after me—painting is not sexy. Painting is not sexy. Painting is not sexy.
And yet here I am, practically melting as I watch Corbin perfect the llama’s eyelashes with the tiniest brush known to mankind.
I ordered this paint-by-numbers mural from Maeve Hartley, an artist whose online store is full of adorable stencil-like animal designs she can customize in days. When I went to Corbin’s game, I requested a fox and a llama sharing a cupcake under a tree—sweet, innocent, and perfect for a bakery. Then I placed the order.
What I didn’t account for was how Corbin would look painting it.
He’s wearing a worn gray T-shirt that clings to his pecs and jeans that do absolutely sinful things to his hockey ass. But it’s not just how he looks—it’s how he moves. The way he concentrates, brow slightly furrowed as he drags that tiny brush with surgical precision. The careful dip into the paint, the gentle stroke, the way he steps back to assess his work like he’s creating a Georges Seurat instead of decorating a bakery wall.
I was already in trouble when he painted the fox’s tail, making it perfectly fluffy with patient little strokes. But watching him work on these eyelashes? I’m done for.
“What do you think?” He steps back, paintbrush still poised in his strong fingers.
“It looks so wet,” I breathe out before I can stop myself.
His gaze snaps to mine, curious. “Itiswet. I just applied it.”
“Oh, it’s very wet,” I say, then immediately want to crawl into a hole. I flash him my brightest, most innocent smile and focus intently on the llama’s chest. “And so is the teal you did before. I just love this pretty teal paint for the grass, even though grass isn’t this shade.” I stop my work and meet his green-eyed gaze. “I read that someone who had red-green color-blindness might see teal as a…flatter shade of blue? Is that what it looks like to you?”
His lips quirk up. “You researched it?”
My chest flutters a little from his response. “I did. It was really helpful. And I wanted to understand more about you.”
He stops painting. “That’s…cool.” He sounds taken aback, in a good way. “And that teal looks sort of like a murky blue to me. What does it look like to you?”
I think about the question, wanting to give it the answer it deserves. “It’s like...” I search for something vivid, something alluring. “The color of a tropical lagoon.”
His smile is soft, genuine. “Hmm. Okay, I can see that better now. Like an island escape. You’re on the beach, relaxing, drinking a piña colada, and the waves are so calm, they barely move.”
“Yes,” I say, laughing.
He points to the shade of red at the top of the pink—what else?—cupcake. “What color is this one?”
