The Real Deal

“What do you want me to paint?” I ask, my voice breathier than it should be. “Did you want a butterfly?”

He leans closer—so close, I could wrap my arms around him. I could curl my hand through his hair and bring those lips to mine in a second. So close, he could do the same. I swallow, and the air between us seems to vibrate.

“I don’t care,” he says, his voice gruff. It edges into me. Coils through me.

“You don’t care what I paint? Why do you want me to paint you, then?”

“So you don’t touch him.”

There it is. The confirmation. The admission of what I knew already from Twister. Now it comes from his lips. His full lips that whispered over mine this morning. That dared to tease me with so much possibility. Goose bumps sweep over my skin as he holds my gaze.

This is the real risk.

Here on the porch, as night falls and my family mills about, telling jokes, playing in the huge yard, I raise a brush to his face.





Chapter Sixteen

Theo

Willpower is my new best friend.

It’s the only thing standing between me and kissing the hell out of her.

She dips a brush into a small red jar and raises it to my cheek. My gaze drifts to her arm, inches from me. She’s as strong as I noticed last night.

“Distracting arm,” I say in a low voice.

“Same for you,” she whispers as she gently presses the brush to my cheek. It’s soft, like a wet feather.

I tell her this.

“Why, yes, Theo, I’m painting you with a wet feather,” she says as she roams across my skin with the bristles.

“‘Wet feather’ sounds dirty.”

She inches closer. “You think everything sounds dirty.”

“Maybe I do,” I murmur; then I take a beat, and add, “Maybe I do with you.”

She stops midstroke as her breath hitches. “Do you?”

Her family is about twenty feet away, and I’m keenly aware that we’re not alone. That I’m her fake boyfriend.

But that’s why I’m allowed to be this close to her, I reckon. That’s why I’m allowed to touch her in public. I’ve been given permission by the terms of this engagement. I inch forward and drop a hand to her knee. What surprises the hell out of me is how much that gesture turns me on. It’s like a dart of lust straight to my groin. What the hell is it with this woman? Her hair gets me going, her arms turn me on, her knee gives me a semi. Briefly, it occurs to me that I might have regressed to a teenager when it comes to instant arousal around a chick. But I’m not about to stop. I curl my palm over her knee.

“You’re touching me,” she says in a soft gust of air.

“I am.”

“Do you do that a lot?”

“I do,” I say as she runs the bristles over my cheekbone. “I’ve told you. It’s impossible not to.”

I squeeze her knee. That little hitch comes again. Hell, if she makes that noise when I touch her knee, what would she do if I stripped off her clothes? What would she sound like if I ran my tongue down her soft flesh and pressed my lips to those stars on her hip?

I groan. Louder than I should.

“You okay?” April stops, the brush held midair.

Our eyes lock. Like a click. Like the movies. Tension vibrates between us. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

My eyes close for a moment, and I clench my fists. Don’t say it. Don’t let on.

But when I open my lids, I see Dean at the end of the deck, kicking back with the crew, and jealousy flares once more. I don’t know what’s up between them, or what was once up between them, but at least for these few days, she’s mine, and I want her to feel that way. That’s what she ordered. That’s what I tell myself to justify what I say next.

“Your stars.”

She trembles. It’s a visible thing. I see it in her shoulders. In the way she swallows. In her shaking hand. She quiets it with her other one.

“Theo,” she whispers, and my name sounds like an admonishment.

“Yeah?”

Her voice is a low note against the night. “You can’t say that stuff.”

“Why?”

“Because. Everyone is around.”

The clink of glasses and the chatter of conversation are close, but far enough away. “They can’t hear me.”

“I know, but I can.”

“And it bothers you?” I ask, tensing.

She draws a breath, and I watch as she parts her lips, inhales, exhales. “No. It doesn’t bother me.…” Her voice trails off, and the way the sentence is left hanging lets me fill in the dots about what my words do to her.

She lifts the brush again, works it over my jawline.

“So then I can tell you all the things I want to do to you.” It’s a statement, not a question.

She keeps her eyes fixed on my face, on the line of the brush against my skin, when she asks, “What do you want to do to me?”

I inch closer, cup both my hands over her knees. “Everything,” I say, my voice raspy.

She stops, meets my gaze. Her wild green irises shine with desire. It’s a look she wears extraordinarily well. Lust. I half want to talk dirty to her until she quivers and begs me to take her upstairs, and I half want to toss her on my shoulder, carry her to the bedroom, and show her.

But I slam on the brakes. I can’t do any of the above. It’s not because of her family. It’s for all the other reasons: Addison, Richelle, the money, the risks, the way people burn you when you get close to them. I’ve got to wrestle back some control around April. It’s only the second night here, and I have to make it through two more after this one.

“But right now, I want you to finish painting me.”

She nods, and resumes her work on my cheek. She moves to my eyelid and tells me to close my eyes. Bristles brush over me. “What are you painting on me?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Does it mean something?” I ask when she tells me I can open my eyes.

Her lips quirk, and she reins in a laugh. “I think you’ll know what it means, Theo.”

A few minutes later, Libby pops over as April declares that she’s done. She stands, pats my shoulder, and tells me to stand, too. She parks her hands on my shoulders and spins me around, showing me off to her cousin.

Libby cracks up and points. “Oh my God. You look hilarious.”

“What did you do to me?” I ask April.

She wiggles her eyebrows.

I dart out a hand and cup her cheek. I dip my head to her ear. “If you painted hairy balls on my face, you’re in big trouble, cupcake.”

She pats my other cheek. “Give me more credit than that, Theo. I painted a big, huge mushroom head schlong on you.”

It’s my turn to laugh deeply. She winks at me, and I deserve all the ribbing I’m getting from her. I welcome it, too, because there’s something wildly entertaining about slipping from sexual tension so thick, it occupies its own zip code, to off-color jokes.

April’s dad wanders over. His brow pinches, and I meet his eyes, waiting for his new marching orders. Swab the deck. Mow the lawn. Run five miles doing cartwheels. “Hey, Casanova. Want to help us set up for the obstacle course tomorrow?”

“Absolutely.”

“It’ll take a while,” he adds.

“Not a problem.”

“At least a few hours.”

April rolls her eyes and mutters under her breath, “So obvious.”

Yes, her father is indeed transparent. I suspect he’s trying to send me to bed well past April’s curfew, hoping we won’t get so much alone time. He has no idea that he’s saving me from temptation.

“I’m at your service,” I tell him with a salute.

“Good,” he says with a small smirk.

“Hey, Dad. Watch out. You might accidentally crack a smile now and then,” April teases.

He turns to her. “I’m all grins for my girl.”

“Good night, Dad,” she says as she hoists the bag of paint on her shoulder and mouths good luck to me. I watch her head into the inn, thread her way through the living room, and turn out of sight.