Every Night (Brush of Love 1)

“Perfect. Is there any way you could help me get a couple of these boxes in there?” I asked.

“You sure you want to put them in there even though we still have to paint?” he asked. “I’d hate for anything to get ruined.”

“They won’t be in there forever. I can slide them along the floor once I actually get them in there,” I said.

“Where’s their final destination?” he asked.

“Eventually, the back of my car, but I’ll settle for that room for now.”

“We could put them back there now,” he said.

“The sun will stream through, though, and alter the paintings. The more weather-tempered I can keep them, the better,” I said.

“Makes sense. Sure, I can help. Just show me which boxes you want me to move.”

“It’s only two. I can get the smaller one, but that bigger one I need help with.”

I pointed them out to him, and he bent over to pick it up. The way his beads of sweat rolled down his back, it painted a picture I wouldn’t have protested to explore. His muscles rolled as he bent down, his arms flexing and his sweat glistening against his tanned skin. There wasn’t a divot on his skin I wouldn’t enjoy dancing my fingertips along, and there was a part of me that wanted to reach out and brush the beads of sweat away from his forehead, so I could feel my skin against his.

I felt my body heating up as he grasped the bo

x. His hands were large, easily lifting the box in his hands as my eyes traveled down his body. His back was full of chiseled muscle waiting to be explored by someone’s tongue, but the moment his tank top rode up a little more, I froze.

He had a tattoo on his lower back, and it was a picture of a cabin in the woods.

It was akin to the cabin painting he wanted to claim as his own.

In that very moment, my heated blood froze. My body that had been pounding for this rippling, sweating man stood rooted to its spot. That tattoo he hadn’t designed, but it wasn’t possible for it to be the same as the picture John had painted. That tattoo was a bit faded, a good few years older than the ones he had on his arms.

His first tattoo.

“Hailey, you comin’?” he asked.

I was ripped from my trance and saw his eyes dancing around my face. His shoulders glistened in the hot San Diego sun as my eyes trailed down his chest. His tank top was glued to him. Laying into every single dip his muscles had to offer. His broad chest was on display, and his abs flexed against the thin cotton material. In that moment, I wanted to reach out to him, pull him into me, and simply bask in the strength of his body. There was a beauty to him that stemmed beyond the carnal. I wanted to paint him in every single position. In every single type of light. With every single backdrop he could afford.

Then I wanted to paint him with my tongue.

“Yes. Sorry. You just ... hoisted that thing right up, didn’t you?” I asked, giggling.

“It pays to be strong,” he said, grinning.

I picked up the smaller box and headed behind him into the building. We dropped both of the boxes down onto the small table I had moved into the art room, and that’s when I got my first look at the finished product. The sheetrock was up, and it had already been painted in a thin coat of white paint. It reminded me of the white that begins a canvas right before an artist takes control.

And I had an idea.

“Bryan, I think this room’s just fine without another coat of paint,” I said.

“You sure? I figured you’d want the walls in here to match the walls out there,” he said.

“Well, I’m the only one who’s going to be back here anyway. And I sort of want to paint it myself. You know, as a personal project.”

Patterns and pictures were already dancing in my gaze. Streaks of golden yellow and oranges were dancing around, plastering themselves on the outer edges as it faded slowly into the middle. Blacks and blues and reds painted the wall in splatters, like someone simply dipped a brush in and flicked it against the wall. I smiled at the chaos coming to life before my eyes. I could hear the laughter of my sister and I as we coated the walls in random colors.

It could be a wonderful project for us, and maybe light a fire underneath her to pursue the life she wanted.

“My first therapy patient,” I said to myself.

“If that’s what you want, then that’s what you’ll get,” Bryan said.