Page 35 of I Knew You Were Trouble

“Who?”

“Never mind.” She wipes above her left eye, and I take it I missed a spot, so I scrub my eyebrow down. “Painting doesn’t have to be messy, though.”

“Isn’t it more fun when it is?”

“I couldn’t tell you.”

I scan her up and down, noting how put together she is even after handling horses all morning. I’ve had two seconds with them and I’m covered.

A slow grin wraps my face, and she immediately grows suspicious.

“What…?”

“I think I know what fear to tackle for today’s lesson.”

“If you put any of that horse food on me I will punch you in the face.”

A bolting laugh escapes me, and I shake my head. “Not quite what I had in mind.”

She relaxes against the wall, her eyes waiting for me to let her in on the plan, but since it’s not all the way formed, she’ll have to be patient. Besides, I’ve got a horse that hates me to walk around first.

Candace

“Pete, no.”

I dig in my heels, hoping to fuse them to the tile floor. I see where he’s leading me—Christmas décor won’t disguise the giant, colorful balls and paint spatter that adorn the archway to the Paint Zone.

“We’ve got time for a round before our shift.” He tugs on my wrist, and my darn work shoes have zero traction. I slide across the floor with a fight, yanking against his hold.

“I’ll get paint in my hair!”

“Oh no! Not your hair!” He drops my wrist and gasps, covering his mouth. “I wasn’t even thinking about your hair. What are we going to do?”

“I will murder you.”

He chuckles and reaches for my arm again. I make him work for it, wriggling out of his way like a toddler refusing bedtime.

“Let me do what you’re paying me for!” He chases me, and I circle around a group of older women in ugly Christmas sweaters, using them for a temporary shield.

“I’m paying you to teach me to be bad. I still fail to see how tackling my fears qualifies.”

I fake a run to the left and dodge his grasp again. The older ladies scurry past us and our shenanigans.

“You’re afraid of breaking rules, yeah?” He lets out a breathy laugh, and his fingers finally clasp around my forearm.

“Yes.”

“Breaking rules is part of being bad, right?”

“How is paintballing breaking a rule?” I tell him with a cocky jut of my hip. His grip tightens on my arm, and warm fuzzies spin through my skin.

“What is so scary about getting messy?”

I narrow my eyes and press my lips together. What is he, a therapist? Is he looking for a deep-seated reason? Yeah, I could think back to my childhood and say that Mom and Dad were anal about me ruining precious carpet or rugs or hardwood floors. I was forced to paint in designated areas, but weren’t all kids who were into art?

Even with owning the farm, there was zero tolerance for a spec of dirt indoors. They’d worked too hard for what they had. Messing up anything, even on accident, would be disrespectful. Wrong.Bad.

Whoa… heisa therapist.

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