Page 15 of His Wild Storm
The kids cheer again and Wendy nods before flashing me a smile. Before I can smile back politely, the door opens again and a woman with hair so dark it’s almost black, sticks her head around the edge of the door. Her eyes lock onto Wilde and a smile tugs at her lips.
When she looks up and meets my gaze, I’m struck by her blue eyes, the same blue eyes Wilde has. My entire body locks up with a single look and everything I’ve been waiting for, hoping for, wanting, and wondering when it would be my turn, comes down to a single moment.
Right now.
I don’t know who she is other than Wilde’s mom, but I do know one thing.
She’s mine.
CHAPTER 6
HAVEN
“Mommy,” Wilde pulls my attention to him where he’s impatiently waiting for me near the door with his little arms wrapped around his sketch pad, box of pastels, and a plastic pear. “You have to come and meet Knox today.”
My son, even at four, leaves no room for argument in his tone. It’s something he’s wanted me to do since I showed up at the end of last week’s art class and ushered him out of the room quickly.
I could say I wanted him out of the room because of the sheer size of the man teaching the class and be totally justified. Knox isn’t just tall, but he’s burly and muscular. He doesn’t have muscles like a guy who spends all of his free time in the gym, and I doubt he’s some fitness junkie because he has a little bit of a dad bod going on.
The moment I looked into his moss green eyes, I froze, and it had nothing to do with his size and everything to do with him. My body reacted to him in a way that completely shocked me. It was something I had never experienced before. Not even withhim.
As much as something inside of me wanted to move closer to him, I called for Wilde and got out of there as fast as I could. If I looked like my ass was on fire, so be it.
Wilde didn’t seem to notice anything strange going on. He was too busy riding the excitement from his art class.
The way he presented what he drew during class was like he expected me to submit it to a museum for display. He wouldn’t be too far off either. It’s exceptionally good.
I was relieved as he gushed about Knox. Even though Wilde is young, Knox didn’t treat him like a kid who couldn’t understand art terms and techniques. He treated my son like an artist with talent.
The number of times I’ve heard the terms chiaroscuro over the last week is off the charts. Then there are the number of times he showed me what it means and how to use the technique. He was so damn happy to show me, there was no way I was going to do anything other than give him my full attention.
Not only did he tell me all about it, but he showed me with his sketch pad and pastels, the same ones he’s clutching to his chest right now like they are precious jewels. It’s not like I can blame him. Knox donated the supplies to make sure his students had what they needed.
Honestly, the man is racking up things I admire about him. He didn’t treat my son like a little kid without talent. He didn’t just get some cheap ass crayons and printer paper like it’s all these kids are worth.
The drawings from last week’s class have been hanging in the entryway of Safe House and I have a feeling we’ll just keep growing our little gallery wall. As it should be. Wilde isn’t the only kid who put a lot of effort and concentration into his drawing.
He even told me about the field of wildflowers that Knox drew. It was after the second book I read to him the night ofart class. He was wired and I wasn’t sure he would go to sleep anytime soon.
“You should have seen the drawing Knox did, Mommy,” his little voice was filled with awe. “It was a beautiful field of wildflowers.”
I perked up because what he didn’t know, what he couldn’t possibly know—and neither could Knox—was my happy place being a field of wildflowers. It’s the space I always imagined when I needed a place to escape. It’s where my mind could be safe while my body endured.
“It wasn’t even done, but it felt like you could walk into his drawing and touch the flowers,” Wilde mused, his voice filled with an admiration I could only hope the man himself could live up to.
“I’m sure it was amazing,” I whispered. “Knox is a tattoo artist and makes a living making art.”
Wilde’s voice turned bright and curious, “Did you see all the tattoos he had?”
I could only smile softly at my son. “I saw them,” I assured him.
And I had. I’m sure it wasn’t even all of them because some were peeking out of the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel shirt. They were sexy as hell, but I wasn’t sure how to feel about my reaction to Knox.
It’s days later and I’m still not sure how I feel.
“Mommy,” Wilde whines and I shake my head while trying to hide my smile.
I’m sure there are more than a few parents out there who would cringe at hearing their child whine. Not me. It’s something Wilde didn’t feel safe enough to do before. Now he does and it speaks volumes.
