Color Me Pretty: A Father's Best Friend Romance

I laughed at the irony of the question. I couldn’t sleep. Nightmare

The three bubbles I expected to see pop up didn’t appear at all, making me frown as I stared at the screen. A few seconds passed before I started typing something out, only to be stopped by three taps on the front door. Body locking, I stared at the door like someone was about to burst through it.

Theo: Make sure to check the peephole

Make sure to check the—

Grinning, I walked to the door, tossing the phone on the counter and did the exact opposite of what he told me to. When I opened it, I was met by Theo’s disapproving but unsurprised scowl. “What did I just tell you?”

He didn’t get to scold me any further before I was on my tiptoes and tugging his face down to mine until our lips brushed. I stepped back the same time he moved forward, closing the door behind him, and locking it without breaking the kiss. One of his arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me tighter into his body while I rested my hands on his broad shoulders.

Drawing back with a smile on my lips, I looked up at him and saw a similar curve to his own mouth. “When you said you were running, I thought you meant in your home gym.”

He chuckled, smoothing hair out of my face before plucking my bottom lip with his thumb. “Found myself needing fresh air. It’s quieter this time of night.”

“Morning,” I corrected.

“Same thing.”

“Not when I’m up and you tell me that I should still be asleep,” I pointed out, eyeing him with the expectation of his argument.

“What was your nightmare about?”

My lips parted for a second before closing. I didn’t normally dream of my mother. At least, it wasn’t the first thing my mind liked tormenting me with. And her looking at me like she’d been disappointed? It punched a hole in my heart that still ached. “My mom,” I answered quietly, collecting my phone from where I’d tossed it and powering it off.

He came up behind me, gipping my shoulders with his masculine hands, massaging them until my head dipped back onto his chest. “I won’t push, but if you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

A hefty sigh escaped my lips. “That feels nice.” Closing my eyes, I eased into his touch as he worked out the tension that had built up over the past couple of weeks. “I don’t really want to talk about it. It was just…sad. It’s one thing to dream about dancing or the stuff that’s happened, but seeing my paren

ts makes it harder when I wake up and they’re not here.”

I was sure he was nodding, but I didn’t look. Instead, I absorbed the soft kiss he planted on my head before squeezing my shoulders and adding more pressure. “I get it, Della. You haven’t had one about her in a while.”

I’d told him about the other dreams. Not always after they happened, but he found out whenever I was extra quiet on the days we saw each other. Which, for the most part, was daily now. He’d given me some space to study for finals, but always showed up to make sure I was fed and happy. Even though I always wanted it to lead to more, it never did.

“Study,” he demanded when he saw me staring at him with my lip between my teeth and not so innocent thoughts lingering in my eyes for him to see.

“Yes, Daddy.”

I grinned thinking about the way he groaned when I called him that. Not surprisingly, he hated it. It probably would have been funnier if my father hadn’t once been his best friend, or if he weren’t so obsessed with the repercussions of our changing relationship. It didn’t stop me from getting a rise out of him when I could, though.

“Can I see your painting?” he asked out of the blue. My eyes cracked open as I looked up at him, already seeing him watching me carefully as he waited for a reply.

I reached down and grabbed his hand, squeezing his fingers and leading him toward the room where the paint was still strong in the air. I probably shouldn’t have loved the smell so much, but I did. It calmed me in a different way.

Theo didn’t let go of me as he stopped and stared at the paintings along the wall, noticing how each one held something strong—an emotion in the way her arms were held high or her body was twisted. When we walked over to the easel to see the final piece, a small breath escaped him. It was hard to watch him study the most intimate thing I’d created. The woman’s face was undoubtedly mine, looking pained and saddened, but freed. The cheekbones, collarbones, and narrowed waistline were the same ones I’d seen in the mirror. The light blue eyes that had darkened with every meal I missed stared back at me, but not in a taunt.

“You never cease to amaze me,” he murmured, focusing on my face. “What are you planning to do with these?”

I shrugged. “I’m not sure.” Truthfully, I hadn’t even planned on painting so many. But the first one felt like a step in a direction I hadn’t gone in some time. Then the second one happened. The third. By the fourth one, I knew the collection would have five, and the fifth would have to be the finale that I deserved. The one where I looked out into the crowd with my head held high and my body in the proper position, without flinching or breaking contact from those who stared back and judged my form.

Something broke in my chest, and a wave of ease filled the crevices that once suffocated the organs inside. “I thought about selling them, but I don’t think I’m quite ready for that. So, maybe I’ll keep them. For now, at least.”

“The fact you painted them is powerful,” he told me, cupping my cheek with his palm before giving me a genuine smile. “You should be proud.”

“You always tell me that.”

“I won’t stop.”