There was a blank spot on the wall where the large collage trash painting had hung. My painting of the art walk was dry, so I decided to hang it in the blank spot. I was tired of pretending to be the type of artist I wasn't. I stood on a ladder to adjust the picture wire hanging from the picture rail. The ceilings were tall, and my ladder was more of a step stool that I had pulled out of a dumpster.
Crack.
I shrieked as I fell, squeezing my eyes shut. Strong arms grabbed me. I opened my eyes.
"I swear," Archer said as he set me down safely on the floor. "I can't tell if it's you who's accident-prone or this café."
"It's my stuff," I said helplessly. "You get what you pay for, and I found this stool for free in a dumpster."
Archer looked at the ladder then up at the picture wire.
"I wanted to hang this."
Archer looked at the painting. "Is this the art walk?"
I nodded.
Archer reached up easily, fixed the picture wire, then hung the painting. He stood back and really looked at it. I watched Archer study my painting. His eyes wandered over every brushstroke, taking it in.
"That's mesmerizing," he said finally. He turned to me, his eyes wandering over me as closely as they had the painting.
Take control. The first brushstroke is the hardest. Don't overthink it.
I closed the distance between us. I reached up on my toes—he was so tall!—and kissed him softly on the corner of his mouth. His fingertips rested lightly on my waist.
"I wanted you to do this yesterday," I whispered to him.
Archer slid a hand on my waist, tilted his head, and kissed me. His lips were slightly cool from the air, but when he deepened the kiss, his mouth was hot. He kissed me like he wasn't in any hurry, like he couldn't care less that we were in full view of the window to the street. I wrapped my arms around him, not wanting it to end.
"Iwantedto do this yesterday," Archer said, his voice husky. "But I felt like I should do it properly, you know, take you out on a date first."
"Mm-hmm," I said, "but you really should test-drive the paintbrush before you buy it."
He looked slightly confused. "I think that's the wrong metaphor," Archer said, his thumb running lightly on my neck.
"No," I said, "it's like when you go to an art store, you should try out the paintbrush before you buy it."
"I'm not selling my paintbrush. I'm giving it away for free."
"That's too bad," I said, resting my chin on his chest, "because I make really nice packaging."
He laughed.
I looked over at the bar. There was a wooden crate on it. "What's that?"
"I told you I would bring you raspberries," he replied. I ran over to the box and opened the lid. Inside were handfuls of perfect, plump raspberries. I grabbed several and popped them in my mouth. The juice exploded on my tongue.
"Yum." I moaned. "So freaking good."
Archer walked over and kissed me. The juice of the raspberries mingled with the taste of him.
"They are pretty good," he said, his voice rumbling through my chest. His head dipped down again to kiss me, his muscular arms crushing my body to his.
"Pancakes," I gasped when he released me. "I'm making pancakes."
"You don't have to cook. We could go out," Archer said with a frown. "I have restaurants at the bottom of my two hotels in town."
I looked at him askance. "You can't bring me amazing berries and then be like, 'Hey, let's just ignore these and let them wilt in the heat.' They must be worshiped."
