“Emily has to paint your face too!” Audrey announced, her grin absolutely diabolical.
Cam’s eyes went wide. “What? No.”
“Yes!” Alice joined in immediately. “You have to be a swamp monster with us!”
“I really don’t think that’s necessary.”
“Please, Daddy?” They both turned on the puppy dog eyes, which was significantly more effective when combined with their swamp monster makeup. The juxtaposition was honestly unfair.
“Come on, girls. Your dad just got home from work. He’s probably tired.”
“I am a little tired,” he muttered, but the way he was looking at his daughters told me he’d already lost this battle.
“Please?” Audrey clasped her hands together. “We’ll be really good all week if you do it.”
“You’re supposed to be good anyway. That’s not a bargaining chip.”
“But we’ll be extra good.”
His eyes met mine, his expression rueful. “This is your fault, you know.” There was no anger or irritation in his words. The rush of relief I felt almost made me dizzy. We were good.
“Hey, don’t blame me. I’m just the artist. They’re the masterminds.”
His mouth twitched, almost a smile. Then he sighed, long and suffering, and moved into the living room, dropping down onto the couch. “Fine. But you’re making me a hamburger swamp monster. Nothing scarier than that.”
The girls erupted in cheers, already pulling me forward.
My hands were shaking as I picked up the face paint palette. This was fine. This was completely normal. Just painting a grown man’s face while his daughters watched. Nothing weird about that at all.
Except for the part where I’d have to touch him. Get close to him. Look directly at his face for an extended period of time, without losing my cool.
“Alright.” I tried to sound confident as I knelt on the couch beside him. “This is going to take a few minutes, so you need to stay still.”
“I’m a grown man. I can sit still.”
“We’ll see about that.”
I dipped the brush in green paint, then hesitated. The girls were watching with rapt attention, perched on the coffee table like they had front row seats to the best show on earth.
Right. Focus on the task. Don’t think about how close you are. Don’t notice the way he smells, or how his jaw is clenched, or how his eyes are locked on your face.
Just paint.
I leaned in and pressed the brush to his forehead, dragging it down in a streak of murky green. His skin was warm under the bristles, and he tensed slightly at the contact.
“Cold?” I asked, keeping my voice light.
“No. Just weird.”
“You get used to it.”
I continued painting, covering his forehead and cheeks with the base layer of green. This close, the small, jagged scar was visible above his left eyebrow. As was the stubble that was starting to come in across his jaw.
Stop looking at his eyes. Look at your work.
I mixed in some brown, adding shadows and texture. My hand was steadier now, falling into the familiar rhythm ofpainting. Dab, blend, dab, blend. His face was a canvas, and I was just creating something fun for his daughters.
That was all this was.
