Every Night (Brush of Love 1)

“If you’re upset, why are you smiling?”

“Because it’s also kind of amusing. You're a pretty big guy, and I think you’re a bit more emotionally invested than you think,” I said.

“How so?” he asked.

“Look at you. With your tattoos and your muscles and your six-foot-whatever stature. I’m five-foot-four on a good day, with hair colors that change every few months and clothes that perpetually don’t match. And you were scared of me, that I’d pull this project from beneath you. You like my art gallery,” I said, smirking.

“It is going to help us further our commercial property branch of our company, yes,” he said.

“You really like my art gallery,” I said, smiling.

“I told you when we first met I do enjoy art.”

“You really, really like my art gallery,” I said, winking. “Look, I always try to see the good in people, but I’m not naïve. You can’t save everyone. It was a ...”

I paused and drew in a deep breath. It was the hardest lesson I’d ever had to learn. I’d started my art journey thinking I could save the world, and the first time I realized I couldn’t had almost knocked the wind from my sails and caused me to abandon my art altogether.

“It was a hard lesson to choke down, but I did,” I said.

“I’m sorry. For however you had to learn it,” he said.

“Either way, I’m not firing you. What happened took place because you set clear lines and someone didn’t respect them. I’m still comfortable with the arrangement if you are, and I trust you.”

“You trust me,” he said.

“I trust you, Bryan.”

I looked up at him, and his dark eyes seemed to settle back into place. I drew in a deep breath through my nose and crossed my arms over my chest, but I could tell he was studying me. He was still on guard, had some sort of shield up that was preventing me from getting any closer. I honestly wasn’t sure why I wanted to be closer.

All I did know was that I didn’t enjoy the barrier he was throwing up.

“You hardly even know me,” he said.

He was right, and it did worry me. I knew when I said I trusted him, it wasn’t just on the project. I felt safe with him and comfortable like I was being heard and supported throughout my endeavors.

Construction workers weren’t supposed to make people feel like that, right?

“I’ve got a good sense for people,” I said, grinning.

“I would say I did, except for what happened just now,” he said.

“Like you said, it’s only happened a handful of times. How many years have you been in operation?”

“Eight,” he said.

“In eight years, employing the homeless community on your job sites, and you’ve only had a handful of incidents? I’d say that’s a pretty keen nose for sniffing out people.”

“Well, when you put it that way.”

“Now, get back to work before something else goes wrong,” I said. “I’d hate for someone to get hurt because you guys are a man down.”

“I’d hate that too,” he said.

I watched him walk back into the building, and I couldn’t help but look him over. That man was going to be in some serious trouble when my sister came into town. Anyone could see he was a good-looking man with his broad shoulders and his tapered waist. But deep within that strong chest, there was a good heart of a man who wanted to help the community as much as he could and who was spurred on by the loss of someone he loved to make a difference and hopefully drive lost souls back into the arms of their loved ones.

Inside the strong body that lifted these electric drills and saws like they were nothing, there was a man who was hurting and who wanted to express himself.

He was still waiti