The image of her in my clothes takes me back to her birthday and what she said about my jersey.
When I got home, I Googled the words she’d mentioned, and I found a quote from a small-town romance book about a cowboy and his agent’s daughter.
You wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.
I smirked so hard my cheeks started to hurt. The thought of texting her in that moment crossed my mind.
Wearing my jersey is exactly like the cowboy rule, which means I’m not letting you wear anyone else’s clothes.
But there’s more to it than a great quote. Seeing Erin out there, cheering for me and wearing my name and number…
It means everything.
“You’re staring,” she says.
My eyes flick up from her attire to find a gorgeous shade of red breaking out across her skin, lighting up the hollow of her throat in the same way a tide creeps up a shoreline.
“Just grateful to be here with you,” I say without hesitation. “After today, I won’t get to see you again for three whole days. I’m taking my fill, and you look stunning in my clothes.”
“So,” she says, fighting a smile, “what are we doing?”
I gesture for her to follow me into the kitchen and let her take in what I set up while she was in the shower.
Paint pallets, brushes, easels, and canvases wait for us.
“And what are we painting?” she asks, taking her seat at the table.
“Whatever we want. The rules are as follows: we have an hour, and we have to switch canvases every five minutes,” I tell her as I set my phone in the middle of the table. “I hope you’re prepared to be dazzled, Bookworm. I’m quite the Picasso,” I say, picking up my brush. “But nowhere near as great as Oliver. He paints Roman’s room every year.”
Erin lifts her brush and taps it against mine. I hit the countdown on my phone, and we both go for our first colors.
“So, you know what my first date looks like. Do you remember your first date?”
“I didn’t do a lot of dating,” I say sheepishly.
No one wants to have the ‘so, what’s your number?’ talk with someone you’re really serious about, especially when that girl isErin. Thankfully, the subtle smile tugging at the corner of her lips lets me know she gets it, and there’s no judgment.
“But there was one date I went on during my second season. It was actually a double date with Jack. They were twins.”
“Damn,” she says.
“That date I remember.”
“Because you got lucky and hit the jackpot.” She wags her brows, and it makes me chuckle.
She’s adorable.
“No, but Jack did. They both went home with him.”
Her jaw drops, and I laugh again at her reaction.
The hour goes by quickly, and it’s the best date I’ve ever been on. When the timer goes off, letting us know our hour is up, I get up from my side of the table and move to sit next to my date.
“You weren’t kidding about the Picasso part. This is really good,” she says as she stares at the drawing of a girl sitting on a stool alone.
I wonder if she knows the girl on the canvas is her from the night we met at Hendrick’s Bar but if she does, she doesn’t say anything.
“Yours isn’t so bad yourself,” I say, staring at the starry night sky with a birthday cake on the jetty.
