Page 145 of Wild Then Wed
I stick my tongue out at him without looking up, but I’m smiling anyway.
In another life—one where this was real and not some quiet, complicated arrangement—he’d make a good brother-in-law. Him and Ridge would probably get along disgustingly well. Charismatic, overly confident, and, annoyingly, the type of guys people always like. The ones who somehow manage to get away with everything.
“I’m gonna grab Hank’s leash and head out,” Riley says, already backing toward the door.
I give him a little salute. “Godspeed.”
He pauses, hand on the frame. “If Sawyer gets home early, just tell him I temporarily borrowed his dog. You know, in the spirit of community.”
I snort. “Sure. I’ll make it sound noble.”
He winks like I’ve made his day and disappears down the hall. A beat later, I hear the front door click shut, and then it’s just me again.
Me and the canvas. Me and the still-not-quite-right color.
There are things I know now that I didn’t when I first started painting. Like how white is never just white. It’s cream or bone or pale blue or warm gray—depending on where the light is coming from, depending on who’s looking. I’ve learned how to let colors do the work instead of trying to control them. When to layer, when to leave space. I’ve learned that negative space matters more than you think. That restraint can say just as much as detail.
That sometimes the thing you’re painting changes halfway through, and you just have to follow it.
I lose track of time when I paint. Not because I’m in some blissed-out creative flow state, but because I stop narrating my life in my head. Just brush, pigment, movement. Tiny decisions that aren’t life-altering but still add up to something real.
I blend a little more red into the mix. Shift the tone slightly. Try again. That’s most of what painting is—trying again.
I don’t hear the footsteps right away, but when I do, I turn, assuming it’s Riley back with Hank already.
It’s not.
Sawyer’s leaning against the doorframe now, arms crossed, sweater clinging to his biceps in a way that should be illegal in this much daylight. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches.
Then he nods toward the walls. “They’re beautiful,” he says, his voice quiet but certain.
He doesn’t step into the room. Doesn’t move closer. It almost feels intentional—the way he stays right there, like there’s some invisible line he’s decided not to cross.
I don’t know what to do with that, so I turn back to my canvas.
“Why don’t you ever use an easel?” he asks.
I shrug, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “I used to hide all my canvases back at the barn. Couldn’t really hide an easel.”
When I glance over my shoulder, his brow is lifted. Curious, not judgmental.
“You hidallof these?” he asks.
I let out a breath. A little heavier than I meant to. A strand of hair blows out of my face with it.
“I guess I didn’t want anyone to see them. My paintings,” I say, eyes back on the palette. “They weren’t for them. They were just mine. And if no one saw them, no one could tear them apart or ask what they meant or tell me how to make them better.” I shrug again, softer this time. “I just wanted one thing that didn’t have to be perfect.”
He doesn’t say anything right away. Just nods slowly, like he’s turning that over in his head. And I appreciate thathe doesn’t offer some speech about how Ishouldshare my paintings, or how everyone feels that way, or whatever people say when they don’t really understand.
Instead, he looks at the canvas on the floor and asks, “But doesn’t it suck? Painting like that?”
Yes. Yes, it does.
My legs fall asleep about twenty minutes in. My tailbone starts aching somewhere around the hour mark. My back usually stages a full protest after I stand up. But I don’t really notice until after. And by then, it’s already worth it.
I glance back at him and give a small shrug. “It’s not that bad.”
He nods once, slow. That same thoughtful expression still on his face. Then his eyes flick to the tarp and the mess of color spread across it. “You’re almost out of paint.”
