Luke pulled his cell phone from his pocket and snapped a photo. He cupped his hands around the screen, his hair blowing against his forehead in an irresistible way. “In case they move,” he said, holding up the phone. By his smile, it was clear that he was delighted by the challenge.
Setting his phone on the easel, he opened a few shades of brown paint, then the black, the green, the blue. He dipped his brush in and, as if it were as easy as breathing, he started to paint in quick, sketchy strokes. She watched the movement of his back, the muscles in his arms as she took another crisp drink of her ice-cold mimosa. She kicked her shoes off and dug her feet under the warm sand. The horses’ tails lifted up as if they were posing for their portrait. They were so still, like they knew.
Luke moved a bit to the side to get a different angle, and she noticed the small smear of paint on his hand. There was something electrifying about the gentle movements of his masculine hands while he created this gorgeous picture from nothing. It was as intoxicating as the drink in her hand. His face was set in concentration, his lips resting together gently. She wondered what it would feel like to have those lips on her.
She couldn’t take her eyes off Luke or the painting, and the more he painted, the more she realized how incredibly talented he was.
“So, you’ve taken trips to the Outer Banks as a kid, but you’ve never seen the horses?”
“No,” she said, the glass cool in her hand and the wind in her hair. “We stayed in cottages along the beaches further south. My favorite memory was getting ice cream after a really hot day at the beach. I still remember how my lips would feel like fire after so many hours in the sun and the ice cream was so cold… We’d sit out on wooden benches with all the other vacationers and I was so small, my feet would swing above the deck. I’d have to lick around the cone to eat it faster than the summer heat could melt it.” She took a sip of her drink, still thinking. “I haven’t thought about those days in years.”
“I know that feeling well,” he said, taking his eyes off the canvas long enough to acknowledge her. “Growing up here was a little different. The small things like ice cream aren’t isolated memories because they’re lumped in with all the other day-to-day things we did. But I do remember making homemade chocolate one summer with my mom. We got it everywhere, trying to take it off the stove before it burned. It sloshed in the pot, spilling over, but we couldn’t catch it because it was hot.” He was laughing while painting, his face irresistible in that moment. “We let it cool and then ran our fingers through it like finger paint. I still remember licking it off. It was the best chocolate I’d tasted.”
One of the horses moved, moseying on down the beach, and Luke kept painting from memory. When he got to the detail on the mane, he pulled out his cell phone and stretched the image with his two fingers, cupping his other hand around the screen again to shield it from the glare. Then he painted some more.
He spent a little time stepping back to look at it and then adding details but, every time, the painting was so amazing that she’d thought he was finished. Then he would put in a small highlight and the tiny change would blow her away. She was transfixed.
Finally, he turned around. His hands were covered in paint. “Finished,” he said, with the most genuine smile. “Your painting.” He waved his hand and presented it to her like a game show host.
Callie set her flute down on the cooler and walked over to get a better look. She shook her head, words escaping her right then. “Thank you,” she finally said. She’d never had anyone give her a gift like that. “I love it.”
“I’m glad you like it,” he said. “I’ve never painted for anyone before.”
“Not even your family?”
He shook his head.
“Why not?”
“Whenever I tried to, my father always steered me toward something else.”
Why would his father push him away from talent like this?
“I don’t think he meant any harm; he just sees things differently from me.” He looked up at the sky. “I’ve never been like him. Over the years, when Dad would preach to me the importance of carrying on the family business, of taking the necessary courses at school and watching everything he did to learn how to do it ‘right,’ he never could understand why I didn’t see the urgency in it. He hated my art classes. He said they were a waste of time when my path was already plowed by his hard work. He’s passionate about his business. He worries constantly that I won’t share that passion. And I think the thought of the business crumbling is more than he can bear. He’s always seen our differences as a threat instead of what they are: just differences. I’m nothing like him. But I can’t change that about myself.”
“And you shouldn’t.”
“I’ve spent my whole life trying to live up to what my father wanted me to be, competing with Aiden. Dad loves him—Aiden’s successful in his own business and I think he would like nothing more than to have the opportunity I have with my father’s company. I worry that I’ve fallen short in my dad’s eyes.” Luke fell quiet and Callie let the silence hang between them. He added, “Aiden has that same drive for business. He built his architectural firm into a huge success, working all hours. I haven’t stopped hearing about it.”
Callie moved in front of him, looking up at his face, the hurt showing despite his effort to hide it.
“He wanted to offer Aiden the business. My mother stopped him. She told him that the papers would have a field day with it and my name would be destroyed. I’d never live it down and it would be devastating for the family and for any future career I had.”
Callie noticed that he hadn’t said that his mother denied that Aiden would be the better choice. She’d only danced around the issue by mentioning the bad press.
“It was enough, and my dad relented and told her I could take over.”
“I’m so sorry, Luke.”
“I’m going to prove him wrong,” he said. “When I get the company, I’m going to keep the business running and ensure its success.”
“I don’t doubt that you will. You’re amazing.”
“You are a breath of fresh air,” he said, the spray kicking up over the sand behind them. He took a step closer to her, his eyes locked with hers. It was as if he wanted to kiss her, and she wanted nothing more than to feel his lips on hers. But he didn’t.
“We’ll leave the painting out while we surf—the wind will dry it quickly so you’ll be able to take it home.” He held up his paint-splattered hands. “I’m going down to the water for a second. Come with me?”
Callie steadied herself, knowing that he was putting on the brakes for her, but wishing there was something she could’ve done to let him know it was okay. Despite the paint, Callie took his hand as they walked. Luke was clearly surprised, but he didn’t let go. He looked into her eyes, affection bubbling up in his gaze. He felt comfortable with her, and now, she felt pressure not to let him down. It scared her to death. She could just walk away except there was this one hitch: She was happy whenever she was with him and she couldn’t get enough of him.