Page 56 of Chasing Sunsets

He wipes at his cheek with his arm, but all that does is smear more paint onto his biceps.

I lose it. Laughter bubbles up uncontrollably.

He glares at me. “Oh, you think this is funny?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head and biting my lip.

His eyes gleam with mischief, and before I can react, he dips his fingers into the paint and swipes a streak right down my nose.

I gasp, “Anson!”

“Hmm,” he says smugly. “No, not enough even control.” He scoops a dollop of white and taps it onto the tip of my nose. “There, that’s better.”

I grab my own brush, dabbing it in the red paint. “You sure you want to start a war you can’t win?” I ask as I hold it aloft.

His smirk falters for half a second before I reach out and smear a bold red stripe across his forearm.

“All right,” he says, rolling his shoulders like an athlete about to compete, “game on.”

The next thing I know, we’re full-blown painting each other.

Anson drags his fingers through a glob of green and splatters it onto my collarbone. I retaliate by tapping yellow onto his jawline. He grabs the palette and scrapes it across my forearm, and I streak turquoise across his chest.

We’re both laughing, breathless, and covered in so much paint that we look like walking art projects when he grabs the entire tube of purple and aims it at me.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” I scream as I launch myself at him, tackling him onto the blanket beneath us.

We wrestle as I try to wrench the tube from his hand. He finally drops it, and he brings his hands to my hips as I straddle him.

“You know,” I say, catching my breath, “you’re kind of a masterpiece right now.”

He smirks. “Maybe I should quit my day job and become a professional canvas.”

I pretend to consider it. “Maybe. Let’s see how well you take direction first.”

I grab a small brush and dip it in deep blue, then trail it down his arm in slow, deliberate strokes, drawing swirls and waves like the ocean itself. His skin is warm beneath my touch, muscles shifting slightly as I paint along his biceps.

His breathing changes—slower, deeper—as he watches me.

I look down, and our eyes meet. The teasing fades into something electric.

“Careful, Tabby,” he murmurs, voice lower now. “There are still people on the beach.”

I smirk, dipping my brush in gold this time. “I’m just painting.”

I press the bristles to his chest, just over his heart, tracing lazy patterns against his skin. His muscles tighten under my touch, his gaze locked on mine.

“No. You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says, voice rougher now.

“Am I?” I ask innocently, dragging the brush lower, just above the waistband of his swim trunks.

His fingers twitch at my sides, like he’s fighting the urge to stop me. “You tell me.”

The air between us thickens, and my pulse begins to pound in my ears. I don’t know if it’s the paint or the sun or him, but I feel like I’m burning up.

Then, in one swift motion, he flips the table.

He reaches out, grabbing my wrist mid-stroke, and tugs me forward as he sits up.

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