When he looks up and catches me staring, he smiles, and walks to one of the shelves. “What’s your favorite color?”
“Green,” I say. “In every shade. And yours?”
He turns back, meeting my eyes without a blink.
“Blue.”
He doesn’t say anything else as he finishes gathering the paints. I notice the colors he chooses: several greens, a bold yellow, a few earthy tones I don’t know how to name, and finally a single jar of cerulean blue that stands out among the rest.
“I thought we could just throw paint at the canvas the way Aurélie does sometimes... and see what happens.”
He gestures to a section of wall covered in protective plastic, marked with splashes of past experiments.
“I’m in,” I say, grinning.
We start doing exactly what he suggested, and at first I’m lost, not sure whether to use the brush or the small mixing cups he set out for us. But the more time passes, the more the hesitation melts away. I switch between flinging paint with different tools and adding spontaneous brushstrokes wherever my hand happens to land.
I never imagined something so completely... random, messy, rule-less, could be this fun.
After a final swipe of the brush, I step back. It’s completely wild. A full explosion of vivid, uncoordinated colors. A beautiful, unapologetic mess.
When I turn toward Alexander’s canvas, I realize that although he started by throwing paint like I did, he eventually switched to drawing. The background is layered in greens and cerulean blue, tiny gold dots scattered like a galaxy... and in the center, the sun and the moon overlap, sharing the same sky.
It’s beautiful.
I clear my throat. “Weren’t we only supposed to throw paint at the canvas, Mr. Santoro?” I ask, pretending to be offended.
He chuckles, adding one last stroke to a sunray.
“Sorry. The engineer in me wanted a little more structure.”
I remember what he told me the first time we met. How he always needed to work with his hands whenever he had the chance.
Alexander steps back and comes to stand beside me, looking at my canvas.
“I know, compared to yours it looks like something a kindergartener made,” I say, laughing.
“I like it,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice makes me look at him. “You can tell you followed your instinct. The colors and the movement work beautifully.”
“Thank you,” I murmur.
He turns toward me, his eyes meeting mine. “You got paint here,” he says, touching the spot just beside my nose.
When I lift my hand to wipe it, he stops me. “Don’t rub it. It’s already dry. I’ll be right back.”
He crosses the studio, disappears through a small door, and returns with a cup of water and a hand towel.
With careful movements, he cleans my face. And I thank the universe for not wearing foundation today, just a little concealer under my eyes.
“All set,” he murmurs, setting the cup and towel aside.
But then he lifts his thumb again, brushing the same spot, as if checking his work... or looking for an excuse to touch me one more time.
I look at him, and the amber in his eyes darkens. Intense. Drawn to me. Swallowing hard, I place my hand on his chest, stepping closer without even thinking about what I’m doing.
Alexander draws a deep breath, and his other hand finds my waist.
My heart stumbles into a frantic rhythm.
