Page 99 of Irresistibly Wicked

Partners in hope. She liked that. “You did everything right.”

The front door opened, and Zander walked in carrying a paper bag and two gallons of paint.

“Hey, Mom. What are you doing here?”

“Hi, honey. I brought you and Shauna a shepherd’s pie.”

“Awesome. Thank you.” He set the paint on the counter.

“I think you’re going to need more paint than that,” his mother said.

“It’s in the truck.” He touched Shauna’s hip and said, “I got you something, Angel.” He reached into the bag and handed her a beautiful steel-blue wooden frame. “It’s for that picture of you and Brian that fell off the wall at your place. I thought it might help you feel better if you put it up where you can see it every day. Maybe on the end table in the living room?”

Her heart swelled. “I’d like that. Thank you.” She hugged him.

“That was sweet of you, honey, and this?” Reba motioned around the kitchen. “I love what you’ve done to the place. I guess what your father says about contractors is really true.”

“What does he say?” Shauna asked, looking at Zander.

“A contractor can build a thousand houses and work on a thousand projects, but until he finds the one that speaks to his heart, you’ll never truly know what he’s capable of,” Zander said.

Reba’s gaze lingered on Shauna for a long moment before shifting to Zander as she said, “I’m glad you finally found the one that speaks to your heart. I have to go. We’re riding with Ginger and Conroy up to Plymouth today. Love you both.”

She hugged them and headed out the front door, leaving Shauna to wonder if Reba thought it was the house or Shauna that spoke to Zander’s heart.

ZANDER PUSHED THE roller in the paint tray and glanced across the kitchen at Shauna, humming to the music as she rolled paint on another wall. Her hair, like the tarp beneath her feet, was speckled with paint, and there were smudges of paint on her cheek. She’d managed to get almost as much paint on her clothes as she did the wall. She was about as good at painting as she was at cooking. There were drips and streaks everywhere, but he didn’t give a damn. He couldn’t get enough of the way she threw herself into everything she did, messily and wholeheartedly.

He rolled paint on the opposite wall and said, “I might have to buy more paint if you’re going to redecorate yourself and the floor.”

“I might have to get a new husband if you’re going to criticize my painting,” she shot back, tossing him a cheesy grin.

“Darlin’, I have no issues with your painting, but when you’re out there searching for a new man, you might want to stay away from artists,” he teased. “They may not be as kind.”

“Well, my wall is done, and I’m ready to edge in the next one. I can’t say the same for yours.” She stepped back, holding the roller like a prize, assessing her work. “What’s wrong with my painting? It looks good to me.”

“Nothing I can’t fix. Just a few streaks.”

“They’re not streaks. That’s texture. I did it on purpose.”

He barked out a laugh. “Texture? You’re painting a wall, not a—” Fuck. The word slipped out of reach. He could see the damn thing in his head, could feel what it meant, pictures on the wall.

Her roller stopped midswipe. “Not a…?” She looked over, her eyes narrowing. Not in annoyance, but in the way they did when she was trying to figure something out.

“Doesn’t matter,” he gritted out, and went back to painting. The heat of her stare burned through him as the lost word—canvas—appeared in his mind like a fucking bully.

“Zander.”

His name felt like a spotlight. “Yeah?” He continued painting to avoid looking into her caring eyes.

“You forgot the word, didn’t you?” she asked too damn carefully.

“No,” he said with a half laugh, trying to brush it off. “I’m just keeping you on your toes.”

“This isn’t the first time I noticed it,” she said more firmly.

He felt the walls closing in on him and gritted his teeth.

“Zan, please look at me.”