She ended the call, realizing she’d missed a text from Tomas, the gallery owner from Archive in Southampton.
Great meeting you yesterday. Come by the gallery tomorrow at 11?
It was presumptuous that he’d assume she’d be free. She tossed the phone on the bench, uncertain if she’d go or even answer. “Looks like it’s just you and me, boy, and maybe Sinatra.” She couldn’t forget to ask Gene about him.
Harry lifted his head off the floor for a brief moment, snorted, acknowledged the comment, and went back to sleep.
Dahlia put her humid hair up in a bun and tied the oversized off-the-shoulder T-shirt at her waist. The navy short shorts she found in a drawer were old and essentially falling apart, so paint splatters weren’t a concern. She filled her water bottle and turned on the record player. This was good. Although she was alone, she didn’t feel lonely. A peaceful painting night was exactly what she needed, even though she still had heaps of stuff to get through. She stretched her hands over her head, watching the bold hue erasethe ordinary color of the walls. Memories of how many times she had painted Daisy’s room through all her phases infiltrated her thoughts. There was lilac, bubblegum pink, sunshine yellow, and who could forget gunmetal gray. She didn’t mind, though. Painting was always a way for her to center herself, think, and find answers. She swayed to the hits of the fifties and belted the lyrics into the wet paintbrush while trimming the room in blue.
There was a knock at the door, waking Harry from his slumber. He barked, which quickly turned into a whimper. It was a clear sign that the person at her front door was a friend. Dahlia set the blue brush on top of the can, turned the music down, and stepped up into the hallway. She peeked from behind the sheers and beamed. It was Noah, holding up a bottle of wine and a brown bag.
“What are you doing here?” She opened the door as giddy as a schoolgirl.
“What can I say, I’m addicted,” he said, giving her a playful smooch. “I brought the vineyard to you.”
She felt her heart flutter under her paint-stained hand. “You’re supposed to be hanging out with your friends.” Her eyes trailed an easy line up and down his body. Fitted black jeans clung to his thighs and other parts too, and a gray T-shirt hugged every curve of his corded arms.
“Do you want me to go back?” He pointed to the door with a goofy grin.
“Hell, no.” Her smile reached the heavens. He had to be the most thoughtful and incredibly sexy man alive.
“I need to tell you something,” he said after kissing her thoroughly.
Her stomach sank.
“I didn’t sign on for another season ofHamptons House. You mean way too much to me, and that chapter of my life, well, it’s closed. And if I’m being honest with myself, I didn’t really belongthere in the first place.” He held her hand, which most likely meant his hands were now covered in paint too. But he didn’t seem to care. He didn’t pull away or say a word. “This, what we have, is real, not that. But …” He hesitated with a smile she couldn’t quite place.
“But what, Noah?” Her heart hammered against her rib cage.
“Can you handle me just being me without the celebrity status?”
“Noah.” She held his whiskered face with an unwavering glance that said everything and more. “That never meant a damn thing to me. You know that.”
He claimed her mouth again, this time with a hunger like no other. It was as if her reassurance unlocked something inside him. Her legs felt boneless, and her blood hummed with need. It took all of her willpower not to yank off his shirt right there. This is what she’d been waiting for, and she wanted to lean into this moment with all she had. But she also had a job to finish, and now he was there to help her, whether he wanted to or not. But she’d make it worth his while.
When they finally broke free, he gave her a closer look. “D, you’ve got paint all over your clothes.” Then his eyes wandered down to his hands, and they too were covered in pale blue paint.
“Oops.” She shrugged with a devilish grin. “I have a proposition for you. How about you help me, so we can finish and go upstairs?”
He raised an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”
“Every time I get paint on something, I have to strip.”
He smiled and moved closer, reaching around her slim waist.
“But you have to do the same.” She reached for a paintbrush dipped in paint and handed it to him. His warm hands left her hips, and she silently groaned from the loss.
“That’s easy, you’ll be naked within ten minutes. That doesn’t seem like a fair trade.”
“Oh yeah,” she said, painting his cheek. He stared at her in shock, but then dipped his fingers inside the can with a look that both terrified and tickled something low in her belly.
“That’s it,” he said, chasing her into the kitchen as she squealed.
Within ten minutes, they were both naked, which led to a much-needed premature paint break. So much for willpower.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
July 25
