Page 98 of Sinful as They Come
Sawyer sighed a little. “You don’t hate it?”
“No. Not at all.” I kept staring at his painting. “People are gonna see this and want you to paint for them. And then you’ll be all famous and move to, like, New York City or something. And forget all about me.” I looked over my shoulder at him, sending him a teasing smile.
He laughed and took a few steps over to me, closing the small gap. “Trust me, Holly, you’re… painfully rememberable.” He grinned.
I laughed too, staring back at his work. “I wish I could paint. I don’t know how you do it. It’s, like, magic, or something.”
“Just need a steady hand, is all.”
“Oh, please. Some people are just born with it, I guess. Looks like you’re one of those people.”
“It takes some practice. You could paint too if you really wanted to.”
“Well, I don’t have that steady hand you talked about.” I waved my fingers at him.
“Nah, you do. Everyone does. Let me show you.”
I blushed when I felt Sawyer step behind me. He was so close. We weren’t quite touching, but I was so aware of his presence that my heart began to race. He smelled stupidly good. That woodsy cologne and cigarettes smell that was wildly addictive. Why did I like it so much? I kept looking forward. In the corner of my eye I could see Sawyer reach around me and pick up a paint brush, dabbing it in some dark green paint.
“Here. Take it.” He handed the brush to me.
Turning around, I stared at him, my eyes going from those too green eyes to his hand that was so much larger than mine. It felt odd to be focusing on all of Sawyer’s small details. The things that made him different. And handsome. Holding back a long, drawn-out breath, I reached forward, letting the tips of my fingers graze Sawyer’s hand. I held the thin end of the paint brush before turning back around to face the painting.
“If you want me to paint, I’ll tell you this right now: I’m going to ruin all of your hard work,” I said as I stared at the half-finished flowers. “And I don’t think you want that.”
“Can always cover it up, princess.”
Sawyer’s fingers were suddenly on my wrist. He moved them lower and lower, until his hand was right on top of mine. I had to hold back a gulp. At least I hoped I was holding it back. Sawyer pushed my hand forward just a tiny bit, bringing the green tip of the brush closer to the blank part of the canvas.
“Just give it soft, little strokes,” he instructed with a soft voice. “No need to rush.”
“I’m gonna mess it up.”
“You won’t,” he chuckled. “Just relax. I got you.”
Letting out a long breath, I inched the brush closer. My hand shook a little. One, because I truly didn’t want to ruin Sawyer’s painting, and two, because he was right next to me. He was just inches away, his big hand on mine, his masculine scent in the air. Sawyer moved my hand just that little bit closer, and then the tip of the brush finally hit the canvas.
“Go up and down,” he said. “Slowly. Easy. Use gentle strokes.”
I nodded and did as he said. I gave the blank canvas a few slow stripes, moving as gingerly as I could. I was so hyper focused on my surroundings, on Sawyer. He held my hand loosely, guiding me as I painted the tiniest, little stems.
“Did I mess it up? Does it look okay?” I asked with wide eyes.
“Looks good to me. But your strokes are a little patchy. You gotta press down just a little bit harder. Lemme show you. We’ll do the petals now.”
With that, I felt Sawyer move that little bit closer to me. I could feel him right behind me as he reached around, taking the brush out of my hand so he could clean it.
“We’ll use this purple.” Sawyer dipped the brush into some violet-colored paint. “You don’t have to hold the brush too tight or anything. Hold it loosely. Makes everything you paint look more natural.”
Doing my best to follow his instructions, I held the end of the brush with nervous fingers. Sawyer’s hand was back on top of mine as he adjusted my grip. Everything he did made my heart race.
“Alright, make the first petal,” he murmured. “Just copy the other ones. Move nice and slow, but don’t be afraid to press down harder.”
Unable to speak, I just nodded, doing my best to re-create the other flowers Sawyer had painted. His hand stayed on mine, guiding me slowly, not stopping until we had made a little, purple flower.
I was very much aware of the fact that I had never been so close to Sawyer Westbrook in my life. But I couldn’t help but be curious as I turned my head to the side to get a look at him.
He was focused on the painting before him, but his gaze slowly turned to me as he looked down. Had his eyes always been so damn green? I could see everything. His tussled hair. The faintest of scars above his eyebrow. I could see it all up close and it made my heart absolutely race.
