Page 55 of Chasing Sunsets

Or Anson.

It was impulsive, but being impulsive is better than living in fear. Sometimes, you have to make a choice to change direction and take a leap because life is meant to be an adventure, not a prison sentence. If the life you’re living feels wrong, the mostcourageous thing you can do is start a new one—even if that new life means living in a tiny tin can and getting by on peanuts. Waking up happy and free, with a full belly and a clear mind, is worth it.

I look out over the railing as the late afternoon sun casts a golden-orange glow on the water. The waves roll gently toward the shore, their rhythmic crash and pull creating a soothing melody. Seagulls fly overhead, their cries carried by the breeze, while the salty air mingles with the faint scent of charcoal and warm wood from the deck beneath me.

I sit cross-legged with my easel set up in front of me, paintbrush in hand. The canvas captures the essence of the ocean, but it’s not quite right yet. The blues aren’t deep enough, the light not quite right.

I dip my brush into a swirl of cobalt and white, creating the illusion of foam and adding more movement to the waves, when I hear the sliding door open behind me.

“Your wine, m’lady,” Anson’s voice rumbles as he steps onto the deck.

I glance over my shoulder and smile.He’s wearing nothing but a pair of swim trunks and a grin. It’s not a bad sight. “Thank you.”

He squats behind me, setting the glass beside the easel. “That’s turning out nice,” he says in my ear before kissing my cheek and standing.

“Your view is too good not to paint.”

He grins, leaning against the railing with his arms crossed, watching me work. “You make it look easy.”

I shrug. “It is easy. You just paint what you see,” I say, lifting my chin to the beach below. “Just look at it.”

He chuckles. “It’s not easy.”

“It’s not?”

He shakes his head. “I tried painting once. Pretty sure my kindergarten teacher still has nightmares about the mess I made.”

I laugh, setting my brush down. “Then, maybe it’s time for a redemption story. Come here.”

He eyes me warily. “I feel like this is a setup.”

“It’s an opportunity,” I correct, patting the deck next to me. “To expand your artistic horizons.”

He exhales dramatically but sits beside me, stretching his legs out in front of him. “All right, Picasso, teach me your ways.”

I hand him a paintbrush and squeeze some red and yellow paint onto a palette for him. “Start with the sun. Smooth, circular strokes.”

He dips the brush into the paint and drags it across the canvas in an uneven, jagged line. I wince.

“Okay,” I say, biting back a laugh. “Not bad.”

He glances at me. “That was the most condescending ‘not bad’ I’ve ever heard.”

I press my lips together. “Try again. This time, be gentle. Think of it like …” I search for a comparison he’ll understand. “Like handling the throttle on your boat. Easy, even control.”

His expression shifts, like maybe that makes sense. He tries again, and the second stroke is better, but he still looks completely out of his depth.

“Ugh, I suck. I’m not much better with a paint roller either,” he mutters, glaring at the brush like it personally offended him.

“Art requires patience,” I tease. “And less aggression.”

He huffs but tries one more time. Just as his brush sweeps across the canvas, a gust of wind kicks up, sending his line off course. Frustrated, he flings the brush onto the palette, smearing a streak of orange paint straight across his cheek in the process.

I slap a hand over my mouth to stifle a giggle, but it’s no use.

Anson scowls. “What?”

“Um, you have”—I gesture to my own cheek, trying to keep a straight face—“a little something. Right there.”

---