Page 53 of Art of Love
I mixed up my paint and glanced over at Hunter. He’d started too and looked deep in focus.
We were silent for a good half an hour as we painted. I moved over to the cupboard to get some more green paint because mine was finished, but I stopped when I saw Hunter’s painting.
I’d been so focused on mine that I didn’t even see the masterpiece of his right there beside me.
It was an abstract of what looked like the English countryside. All shaped with dimensions to trick the eye into thinking there was a house of a hill with the lush green grass surrounding it and rolling hills that went on forever in the background.
I’d studied his grandfather’s work, and yes, emulated it, but this before me was something else. It took my breath away and looked so real I felt like I could have stepped right into the picture.
“It’s not done yet,” he called over his shoulder.
“It doesn’t need to be. That is amazing.” Straight away I could see the talent and the skill, but it wasn’t just talent and skill. There was more. It had something that shone and made it unique.
He turned to face me and smiled when he saw my face.
“You like it?”
“Hunter, this is beautiful. You could have your own gallery.” It was the kind of piece that made you want to see more of what the creator could do.
“That’s the dream, right? I’d love to do that one day.”
“Me too. That’s my dream too.”
He moved to look at mine, and his smile brightened instantly. “And you should. Christ, this is amazing. Meteor shower in the trees.”
“It’s not as good as yours.” I shook my head.
“Hey, there’s no competition in here. I love your work, Jia.”
“And I love yours.” I went to point my brush at his painting, but I didn’t realize some of the paint was still on the tips. The movement flicked the paint straight in his face.
“Whoa.” He wiped the paint and smeared it in his hair.
“I’m so sorry. God.”
A wicked smile lit on his face. “Are you? I’ll bet you aren’t really.”
Playfully, he flicked the yellow paint on the tips of his brush on me. It landed smack in the center of my cleavage.
“Oh yes.” He nodded.
“I just bought the top. It’s oil paint; that’s not going to wash out.”
“Oh, snap.” He purposely flashed the paint now, and it speckled all over my face.
Laughing, I grabbed the green paint from the cupboard and rushed him, squeezing the whole tube all over his white top.
“That wasn’t fair. You had a whole tube.”
“It was fair.”
I squealed when he dropped the brush and grabbed me, pressing me to his chest so I, too, could be covered in green paint.
I was laughing so much my sides ached, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed like that. The darkness had entered my soul for such a long time that I forgot to laugh. I forgot how to be happy.
He turned me to him. I was still giggling when he cupped my face and beamed down at me. His gaze was intense and serious, filled with that desire that gripped me.
“I...” I went to talk, but I didn’t know what to say.
