Every Night (Brush of Love 1)
If I even attempted to turn these lights on, the whole place might go up in flames.
Even though the building itself was incredibly dilapidated, there was a weatherproofed little storage space out back. It looked like a rough addition someone that owned a bar might’ve put up, a place to keep extra boxes of things without the risk of the weather ruining everything. I decided to unload things I’d had delivered from my storage unit. Some paintings, some extra supplies I’d eventually sell, new brushes, and things like that. Storing it all here in this little extra shed would reduce my monthly costs by allowing me to close down that storage unit, so I was more than willing to break the sweat.
When I finally rid the building of the last speck of dust and the last piece of broken glass, I sat back and surveyed the area. I was going to need a great deal of help getting this thing up and running in time. I was giving myself two to three months to get it open and four months before I was profitable. Sweat made the fabric of my shirt cling to my body, and I realized I could use a nice shower.
Or a dip in the ocean across the road.
Just as I turned to the door, a knock resounded. It made me jump. Who would be knocking on the door to this old place? The mental to-do list slowly slipped from my mind as I swung the door open, and nothing I could’ve done would’ve prepared me for who was standing on the other side.
I recognized him instantly, and for a brief moment, I thought he knew me as well.
His eyes studied my hair, the massive purple sensation that was glaringly obvious about my physical features. I looked down at his tattoos, getting a closer look at the shining geometric colors that donned his left arm. I couldn’t help staring at it, my eyes flickering over all the colors and patterns. It was more intricate than I could’ve ever imagined, and I simply couldn’t pull my attention from it.
His voice, however, startled me from my trance.
“Designed it myself,” he said.
“You drew that?”
“Yep.”
“What about the coloring? The shading?” I asked.
“Did that, too,” he said.
“It’s ... mesmerizing.”
Why in the world was this man knocking on my door? Out of all the people in San Diego who could’ve possibly been curious about what I was doing, it was a little crazy it would be Bryan.
John’s brother.
I was worried about the recognition on his face. His eyes were dark but carried a sort of kindness that was reminiscent of his brother. I could feel his gaze dancing along me, drinking me in as we stood in the doorway. Had he seen me at the memorial? Was he going to ask me why I was there?
Was he about to ask me how I knew his brother?
“Odd question,” he said, “but were you at a memorial service for a man named John McBride a week or so ago?”
“No,” I said, lying. “Can’t say I was. Though I’m sorry for your loss.”
I couldn’t tell him. Not now. Not here while he was standing in some shoddy old shack. I had to accomplish my goal, and anything that derailed me from that had to be seen as a detriment. I’d worked hard to get to where I was and to have the ability to showcase beauty that had been smothered by the world’s darkness.
I couldn’t allow a man with wonderful tattoos and smoldering eyes to distract me from that goal because I owed it to too many people not to get sidetracked.
I saw the look of surprise roll over his features at my answer, and part of me wondered if he knew I was lying. Just the small exchange told me he’d seen me there, and I cursed myself for sitting at the bar. I should’ve stood off in the corner. I could’ve stayed in the shadows somewhere.
Hell, I probably shouldn’t have gone at all.
“I’m Bryan McBride,” he said as he held out his hand.
“Hailey Ryan,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you. As you can see, I’m not nearly open for business yet.”
“I figured by the outer appearance.”
“Then you don’t mind me asking why you’ve come knocking on my rickety door?” I asked.
“Honestly? I was just curious. I’m at the diner across the road about once a week, and I was getting curious as to who bought this place.”