In no time at all, I set a plate with fluffy pancakes stacked high and a bowl of fresh berries I found in the fridge on the table. Freya beams as I slide into the booth beside her, her small hands already reaching eagerly for the syrup. Blake sits across, his eyes meeting mine with that intensity that makes my breath catch.
Between bites of pancake, Freya asks if we can paint the joint-effort family portrait that I told her we could the other day when I went to visit her in her room. "Please? You promised!"
I smile at her enthusiasm. "I’m not sure Daddy will want to join in.”
“Of course, I want to join,” Blake says, looking from me to Freya.
“It’s gonna be messy. Very messy. Your clothes will get dirty,” I warn with a laugh.
“Don’t you know? I like it messy. The messier it is, the more I like it,” he says in a cartoon character voice.
Freya claps her sticky hands together with excitement. "Yes! Yes! Oh yes!"
Blake stares into my eyes, his gorgeous gray gaze deep and searching. It stirs that familiar longing in my body, and I have to accept the fact that I'm becoming sloppy—letting emotions bleed through. Suggesting something as intimate as a family portrait when this isn't my family. It is extremely careless, especially after Carolyn’s warning this morning.
But I can't help it. Part of me feels the need to memorize this, capture the happy moments before they slip away. The more I enjoy—the laughter, the touches, the warmth—the clearer it becomes that it will break my heart when it comes to an end. It’s now like a ticking clock in my mind, counting down to heartbreak. But I don’t care. I’ll take the pain when it comes, but now… this ismyfamily. Blake ismyhusband, and sweet Freya ismystepdaughter.
"I never knew you liked to paint," he tells me, his voice low. Fork paused midway to his mouth. "How have we been married all these years, and I didn’t know this?"
I pause, my heart skipping. Choosing my words carefully, I respond. "We really haven’t been very close, though, have we?"
"Right," he says, his tone thoughtful. A flicker of something in his eyes. “Why haven’t we been close?”
I shrug, my heart beating wildly because I might have been caught. The lie feels too thin on my tongue, and panic is now fluttering in my chest like trapped birds—does he suspect? Is this the moment it unravels?
I decide to say less as I should have done from the start. I truly am becoming way too sloppy. "I don’t know," I murmur, forcing a casual smile. "But things change."
Leaning forward across the table, his knee brushes mine under the booth. It sends sparks up my leg. "They do," he says, his eyes narrowing slightly. "But not without reason, usually."
Thankfully, Freya saves the day. "I’m finished. Can we start painting now? Please?" Her excitement cuts the tension like a knife.
She pulls his attention away, and I exhale, relieved that the tense moment has been diffused. At least, momentarily.
Chapter Forty-One
BLAKE
Ican't believe I'm painting! Dirty and elbow-deep in paint with my daughter and… a woman who looks and sounds like my wife, but behaves nothing like her.
The three of us huddle around the easel in the middle of the conservatory, painting a family portrait that we're building layer by layer. Me at the center with Freya on my lap, and Carolyn beside us, wearing that soft smile I've come to crave. It’s like some scene straight out of a feel-good movie where the stoic businessman rediscovers his heart through family chaos. Dust motes dance like tiny fireflies in the golden beams of light pouring in.
The air carries the sharp, heady scent of oil paints and turpentine. Freya giggles nonstop, her small hands smeared with cobalt blue and cadmium yellow from the tubes we've squeezed onto the palette, her curls tied back with a ribbon that's already slipping loose.
And Carolyn—God, she looks so sexy and alive in my shirt. Faint flecks dot her cheek like freckles. She guides Freya's brush gently, her voice soft as she explains the strokes.
And me? I'm right there with my sleeves rolled up on my casual shirt, pigment on my fingers, dabbing at the canvas, feeling like a kid again. The brush feels foreign yet freeing in my grip. It's surreal—this domestic bliss after years of emotional distance, my hands creating something real and tangible. My heart swells in a way that's almost painful, a mix of joy and disbelief that this is my life, this warmth filling the cracks I didn't even know were there.
We work together, the three of us falling into sync like we've done this a hundred times, even though it's our first. Freya dips her brush too liberally into the crimson, splattering some on the drop cloth we've spread out, her laughter bubbling up as Carolyn shows her how to blend it properly on the palette.
"See, sweetie? Mix it like this—slow circles, let the colors marry."
I lean in, so close my shoulder brushes Carolyn's, sending a spark through me as her warmth seeps into my side. She demonstrates shading with a few careful strokes.
"Watch how the light hits here. Now use the darker tone to create depth, like this."
Freya nods seriously, her tongue poking out in concentration as she mimics Carolyn on her section of the canvas. The paints glide smoothly across the surface, the oils blending creamy on the linen canvas stretched taut on the easel. The bristles whisper softly as we build the image, bringing Freya's curls to life in swirling browns. It's immersive, with time slipping away as we pause now and then for sips of tart and icy lemonade that Carolyn made earlier. Soon enough, the family portrait is ready— imperfect but vibrant and wonderful. Freya's enthusiastic blobs have added a unique charm to it and I plan to frame it and hang it in the study. It has everything. I’m rather proud of it: the three of us caught in oils like a frozen snapshot, capturing a day of pure happiness and joy.
Freya steps back with her hands on her hips, still smeared with paint, and beams at the canvas. "I can't wait to show Grandma!" she exclaims, bouncing on her toes with exhilaration.
