Page 21 of Dating His Brother

“That’s alright,” I shrugged. “I was feeling a little distracted anyway. What…What are you doing here?”

“You did say I could come by,” she barked, sounding irritated.

“I did,” I nodded. “It’s no problem. I just didn’t expect you to pop up like this.”

“Should I go?” she challenged, pointing towards the door.

“No,” I smirked. “But, am I right in saying that you seem a little…miffed?”

“I guess miffed is one word for it,” she huffed, plopping down in the nearest chair. She winced the moment she did and quickly jumped up again. “Dammit!”

She started swiping at the back of her tight skirt that hugged the perfect roundness of her ass, only to freak out all over again at the sight of her hand. She had unknowingly plopped down on an open tube of red paint, which covered the pristine white fabric and now her hand as well.

“Of course this would happen,” she fumed, furiously wiping and smearing—making the whole thing worse.

“Yikes,” I bared my teeth, hissing. “I hate to tell you...That’s not going to come out completely. Probably ever. Is it expensive?”

“Just vintage Chanel,” she seethed sarcastically. “No big deal.”

“Here, stand still,” I told her, rushing over to grab a rag. I reached around her and tried to get the bulk of it off. “It will stain. Nothing I can do about that. Red oil paint on white fabric is a recipe for disaster. But, now you can at least sit down without leaving a trail that looks like a murder scene.”

We both froze for a moment, locking eyes. She swallowed hard as we both realized our bodies were pressed together, my hand and the rag repeatedly grazing her perfect, plump backside. I tried not to get too much pleasure from it, but that was proving to be difficult. Especially with the way she was looking at me.

I cleared my throat and tossed the rag to the side, grabbing another clean towel to put over the chair after I had shoved the tube of paint away. “Try again,” I told her, pointing to the dry, covered seat.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

“I think you could use a drink.”

“Or five, please.” She slumped over, pressing one hand to the side of her head.

“Say no more.” I dashed into the kitchen, just a few feet away, and grabbed a bottle of whiskey. I fixed her up a cocktail with soda and delivered it promptly after throwing back a shot for myself.

“Care to tell me what’s troubling you?” I asked as she started chugging the mixture.

Her eyes met mine again, and she had a look to her I had never seen before. Something scared and vulnerable, and a little sheepish.

“Come on, just pretend I’m a bartender,” I suggested. Her face twisted in confusion. “People usually unload their troubles on a bartender over drinks after a long, hard day,” I clarified.

“Oh, sure,” she mumbled. “Well, it’s hard to explain. It’s this whole stupid Heartstring campaign. And my brother’s insistence on turning his determination to marry me off into a marketing ploy for the company. I don’t know which is worse. His decision that I have to find a husband now, just because he’s ready for me to. Or that he’s shamelessly using the whole ordeal to profit his work while he’s at it.”

“I see,” I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. “Well, I can’t tame your brother’s ambitions any more than I can get that stain out of your skirt. But I can try to cheer you up.” I held out a hand to help her up. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”

The tour was short as my place was small. The only area I didn’t take her into was the loft bedroom. For one, it’d be tricky for her to maneuver the ladder in her stiletto heels. And two, I finally had her here alone. I wasn’t about to risk scaring her off by giving her the wrong idea.

She took her time looking through the stacks of paintings, both finished and unfinished, in the main room where I worked. It really was a perfect day for her to come by. The balcony doors were open and the sun was streaming in. It was the perfect light for painting, but it was also the perfect light to admire her in.

“I have to say, I envy your passion,” she commented as she trailed a finger along the top of a large canvas. “I’ve never had any real hobbies. Nothing substantial or meaningful anyway. Or much of a purpose in life at all. I guess you could say I’ve always been a little…lost. Like a balloon just floating around in the sky until it eventually pops.”

“Pop as in a mid-life crisis?” I guessed.

“I amnotmiddle aged,” she insisted sternly. “And no. I meant…until I died.”

“That’s no way to live,” I replied. “Just waiting to die.”

“Sorry for being so dark,” she groaned, seeming frustrated with herself.

“I don’t mind dark,” I argued. I stared around the room, racking my brain for a solution. “Hey, why don’t you try it? Painting, I mean. You never know what your talents are until you start trying different things.”

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