Page 15 of Wolves & Watercolors
The world drops away as I sketch, starting with a series of rabbits and vegetables, inspired by the garden. It feels very Peter Rabbit. Next, I outline a little mouse reaching for a strawberry. Cute.
Movement catches my eye and draws me from my fixation. Cedar’s back flexes as he reaches across a garden bed a few yards away from me. Somehow he’s worked his way over here. I can’t help the small smile curving my lips.
Once, he looks up, his gray-blue eyes intense under the messy mop of golden hair. My eyes dart down to my paper, pretending I wasn’t ogling him, but he’s such a commanding presence, I can’t help but look back. His head dips as he focuses on his work. I can still feel his biceps under my hands, solid and reassuring. I really should stop touching him.
A grumble interrupts my thoughts. My stomach growls again. Cedar’s head shoots up, his eyes locking on me. No way he heard my stomach from that far away.
“I’m ready for lunch. What about you?” he asks, raising his voice so I can hear him clearly. I make a thumbs-up and raise it into the air.
Adding a few flourishes to my artwork, I call it complete and stow my supplies away into my messenger bag. A shadow falls across me, and I look up to see Cedar offering his hand. He’s steady and sturdy as he pulls me to my feet.
“Thanks.”
He just nods in response and strides toward the archway on the southern end of the garden. I scramble to keep up with him, but after a moment, he slows. Pressing my lips together to hide a smile, I fall into step beside him.
“So is there a plan for lunch?” I ask.
“Crickett’s diner has some sandwiches. Is that okay for you?”
“Great.”
We scale the steps and pop into the diner. The windows leave rectangles of warm afternoon light splashed across the black and white tile floor. The counter is noticeably empty and I admire the expanse of polished chrome.
Cedar crosses to a deli case at the end. “Turkey or ham?”
“Either,” I say.
He returns with one of each, a couple of bags of potato chips, and two bottles of water. With a tilt of his head, he ushers me outside. On instinct, I go to the same picnic table as last night. Cedar says nothing but settles across from me.
“What do you want?” he asks, cracking open a bottle of water and taking a drink.
“I’m not picky, but I’d probably like the barbeque chips more than cheddar.”
“Sure, and how about I take the ham?” He claims the cheddar chips for himself.
“Works out perfectly,” I murmur, picking up the turkey sandwich and unwrapping it. The bread is thick and the aioli inside smells like pesto. “Oh, this is good.”
Cedar nods while chewing his own bite. Once he swallows, he gives me another of those rare smiles. It knocks every thought out of my head and I freeze with my food halfway to my mouth.
“My mom bakes all of our bread. And my dad made that cheese.”
“No way.”
His smile widens into something that could be considered a grin. “And I grew the lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumber.”
“No wonder it’s so good,” I say, enjoying the flush warming his neck. I want to kiss the pink shell of ears when he blushes like this. As soon as the thought forms in my brain, I push it away. Ridiculous. He isn’t remotely my type, he just has a nice smile.
“When did you start painting?” he asks.
The question surprises me. It shouldn’t, but with my Los Angeles friends, no one would bother to ask. They’d be busy sharing their latest accomplishments. The past didn’t matter, just what you had right now. But I’m not in the city anymore.
Cedar looks at me expectantly, unaware of my racing thoughts.
“I don’t even remember. Forever. Remember those yellow watercolor palettes we got for school? I remember scraping the last of the paint out of those and layering it over construction paper obsessively.”
“That's impressive,” he said, and he sounds like he genuinely means it.
“What about you? Did you always want to grow food for people?”
