I shake my head to rid myself of the feeling as the couple we were waiting on walk through the door and I greet them, telling them to take a seat and pasting the smile on my face that was there before Tristan turned up.
Again, what is he doing here?
“Right, now that you’re all here we’ll get started. Firstly, help yourself to drinks, it’s what they’re there for. Secondly, my art classes are normally more structured, but tonight I’ve decided we’re going to have some fun. I know you all signed up for ‘fine wine’ and ‘fine arts,’ but I thought tonight I’d spice things up.” I pull a bottle off the table.
“Is that… gin?” Tristan asks, his brow lifting as he smirks. “The last time you drank—”
I narrow my eyes at him and I see his lips lift into a bigger grin at my silent warning.
Clearing my throat, I tear my gaze away from him, ignoring his near comment as I continue addressing everyone. “This is here if you want something stronger than wine; help yourself. We’re going to do something called ‘expressive art’ tonight. Basically, you can do anything you’d like. There’s plastic sheeting up so you can splash a backdrop or use your hands, feet... anything really.” I shrug. “Coveralls are in that box over there to protect your clothes, please feel free to paint them too, they’re yours to take home afterward.” I clap my hands together excitedly before asking, “Shall we get started?”
They all stand apart from Tristan who I notice hasn’t taken his eyes off me since he walked in here. I step into my paint-splattered coveralls that his kids helped to decorate and sigh as I see movement out of the corner of my eye.
He lifts off the stool he’s sitting on and stalks toward me, still wearing that insufferable smirk. “Nice coveralls,” he says moving his eyes down to my legs to where there’s swirls of bright pink and purple paint on the knees.
I pucker my lips, frowning at him. “Thanks.”
He nods and gazes around the room. “Nice—”
I don’t give him the chance to talk to me as I clear my throat and point over to the box on one of the benches. “Shall we get you some of your own and get you started?”
He raises a brow. “Only if you promise to do those swirls on mine too,” he cajoles.
I roll my eyes and grab him a pair, throwing them over to him before walking across the room to everyone else.
“How’s everyone doing?” The couple that arrived last have their pant legs rolled up and are walking across a roll of paper leaving paint prints of their feet with wine glasses in their hands, laughing. “Looking good,” I comment, smiling at them.
The two women and the man that arrived first have banded together and are standing around by the drinks table, not joining in.
I walk over to them, determined to get them set up with an activity of their own. “Excuse me, do you need some help deciding what to do?”
One of the women looks me up and down and says, “No, we’re good,” before turning back around and talking to the other two again.
My eyes widen at her and I straighten my spine. “I’m sorry, but if you’re not going to paint or join in, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” I see Tristan out of the corner of my eye stop what he’s painting, watching the interaction.
I square off my shoulders when they don’t make a move to do anything. “So, would you like me to show you where the coveralls are again?”
The man looks between the two women with a cocky grin, and I can tell this isn’t going to end well. “Listen, lady, we’re having a conversation first. Why don’t you go and paint a rainbow or something?”
I’m about to show him the door when a hand lands on my shoulder, moving me to the side. “What the hell did you just say?”
I gulp at the deep, threatening tone of Tristan’s voice, my eyes swinging from him to the man who has now stepped forward.
If I wasn’t so angry with him, I’d see it as chivalrous.
I step in between them both, facing Tristan. “Go back to what you were doing, I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”
He glares at the man over my shoulder, ignoring me. “Like the lady said, if you’re not going to join in… leave.”
I sigh, deciding that fighting against so much testosterone would be a pointless feat and let them have their stare down.
The man backs down to Tristan’s menacing gaze and turns toward the two women. “Let’s get out of here, it’s hippie shit anyway.”
Hippie shit? “It’s art, asshole,” I call to him as he slams the door behind them. Tristan laughs and my head snaps from the door to him.
He puts up his hands in a peaceful gesture. “You okay?”
At his words, I snap back to reality and regret causing a scene in the middle of my studio. I look around the room at the couple gazing over at me before saying, “Sorry about that, that’s never happened before.”