Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
I ordered this paint-by-numbers mural from Maeve Hartley, an artist whose online store is full of adorable stencil-like animal designs she can customize in days. When I went to Corbin’s game, I requested a fox and a llama sharing a cupcake under a tree—sweet, innocent, and perfect for a bakery. Then I placed the order.
What I didn’t account for was how Corbin would look painting it.
He’s wearing a worn gray T-shirt that clings to his pecs and jeans that do absolutely sinful things to his hockey ass. But it’s not just how he looks—it’s how he moves. The way he concentrates, brow slightly furrowed as he drags that tiny brush with surgical precision. The careful dip into the paint, the gentle stroke, the way he steps back to assess his work like he’s creating a Georges Seurat instead of decorating a bakery wall.
I was already in trouble when he painted the fox’s tail, making it perfectly fluffy with patient little strokes. But watching him work on these eyelashes? I’m done for.
“What do you think?” He steps back, paintbrush still poised in his strong fingers.
“It looks so wet,” I breathe out before I can stop myself.
His gaze snaps to mine, curious. “It is wet. I just applied it.”
“Oh, it’s very wet,” I say, then immediately want to crawl into a hole. I flash him my brightest, most innocent smile and focus intently on the llama’s chest. “And so is the teal you did before. I just love this pretty teal paint for the grass, even though grass isn’t this shade.” I stop my work and meet his green-eyed gaze. “I read that someone who had red-green color-blindness might see teal as a…flatter shade of blue? Is that what it looks like to you?”
His lips quirk up. “You researched it?”
My chest flutters a little from his response. “I did. It was really helpful. And I wanted to understand more about you.”
He stops painting. “That’s…cool.” He sounds taken aback, in a good way. “And that teal looks sort of like a murky blue to me. What does it look like to you?”
I think about the question, wanting to give it the answer it deserves. “It’s like...” I search for something vivid, something alluring. “The color of a tropical lagoon.”
His smile is soft, genuine. “Hmm. Okay, I can see that better now. Like an island escape. You’re on the beach, relaxing, drinking a piña colada, and the waves are so calm, they barely move.”
“Yes,” I say, laughing.
He points to the shade of red at the top of the pink—what else?—cupcake. “What color is this one?”
“Candy apple for the cherry. It needs one more coat.”
“So I should want to bite it? The cherry?” The question is innocent, but the way his voice drops is not.
Now I’m thinking about him biting things. Specifically, me. “Yes,” I say, then I roll my lips together to seal in the murmur.
“The color works, then,” he says.
I turn away so I don’t, I don’t know, throw myself at him. I have a sky to paint. As I dip my brush in the paint can, a drop of robin’s-egg blue splashes onto the top of my foot.
I bend to grab a rag from the drop cloth and swipe off the color. I’m painting barefoot—it’s just more comfortable this way.
We work alone, with music filling the space between us. A Frank Ocean tune, which isn’t helpful since that man’s voice is sex. But I focus on the bakery instead of just how good Corbin’s being with his hands.
“Tomorrow the garage door gets installed,” I say, sticking to practical details. I’ll oversee that since Corbin has a game. “I know it makes you sad that you won’t be here to discuss ‘manly garage things’ with the contractor.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I want to do,” Corbin says. Then he stops his strokes of blue, shooting me a curious look. “You’re not wearing one of your pickleball dresses?”
It’s said like a question. I can hear the why not.
I glance down at my painting ensemble. “It’s a skort,” I say, then pluck the ruffly hem of the combo skirt-shorts. I’ve paired them with a white crop top that’s a few years old, something that won’t bother me if it gets paint on it. I also chose it since he said he can see white easily. “This skort is from a few seasons and a few thrift shop trips ago, so I don’t wear it when I play.”
“They’re not premium clothes?” he asks dryly.
I laugh at his description. This is safer than talking about shades of color. “Exactly. I have my cute little athletic numbers for when I play, and I have the fun pickleball dresses for errands, and I have last year’s skorts and stuff for painting and working.”
“Got it,” he says, grabbing a fresh brush and dipping it into the red again, probably for the second coat on the cherry. “You have the first line and the second and the third.”