Page 46 of Had To Be You

“I was admiring you in yours too,” she says with a coy grin. “Have you done this before?”

“Paint a canvas?”

“Yes,” she replies, tying her hair back into a ponytail.

“Not since elementary school.”

“Well then this should be fun,” she says, rubbing her palms together in enthusiasm. She then turns her attention to the front of the room where our overly eclectic instructor begins to guide us through the first stages of our canvas. Once we’ve started, she moves around the classroom helping to guide us with our strokes. She eventually stops behind me and is assessing my work when the middle-aged man behind us, who is dressed for the occasion in a knit beret, interrupts us. This man clearly takes his art seriously, and I’m relieved when our instructor heads his way. Extra attention is not what I’m looking for right now. It appears he is.

“Liam, I like what you’re doing,” Ellie says, leaning into my shoulder, pointing her paintbrush at my canvas.

I know what I prefer I was doing, and it has nothing to do with blending red and yellow to make orange. But Ellie is smiling and laughing so I’m choosing to make the best of it. Honestly, it’s impossible not to enjoy myself when I’m with her. I’m not sure what it is about Ellie, but she makes me want things I’ve never wanted before.

“Thank you. I’ve been told I’m exceptional at mixing colors, so it’s really no surprise you like my work,” I deadpan.

“Is there anything you can’t do?”

I shrug, arching my brow. “Write poetry, I suppose.”

“That’s a shame. I’ve always been a sucker for an impeccably written haiku, but I guess I’ll keep you,” she says, before dipping her paint brush into the pot of blue acrylic paint.

We continue to work on our paintings and to my surprise I laugh more than I have in ages. While my Starry Night resembles more of a crazed hurricane, Ellie turns out to be a Van Gogh prodigy.

“Drinking and painting is fun,” Ellie says, taking a sip of her wine.

“Who decided painting and wine are a pair? That they would work well together? Shouldn’t you have your wits about you when creating a masterpiece?” The question is rhetorical because the answer is obvious. Wine is an absolute necessity while participating in a Sip and Paint class. I never would survive it otherwise.

“You’re not wrong. I doubt Michelangelo was half-cut when he created the Sistine Chapel.” She says with a wink then takes a sip from her wine glass.

I laugh, trying not to spit out my mouthful of wine. This experience should have been painful, but with Ellie it’s a blast. I’ve never met anyone who can make me laugh like her.

“Don’t look now. She’s back,” Ellie says, wiggling her brows in the direction of our instructor, who is clearly headed our way. Ellie previously pointed out that Emma likes to gaze in my direction in an overly lustful kind of way, and she’s not wrong about that. Emma is clearly eye molesting me.

Doing exactly what Ellie just told me I shouldn’t do, I glance toward our teacher. Her eyes gleam. She steps closer so that she is only inches from my shoulder, narrowing her eyes on my canvas. “This would be even better with a little yellow in this corner,” she practically purrs, her breath in my ear. I try very hard not to flinch when her shoulder rests against mine as she points out brush stroke techniques.

Is it weird the way she rests her hand across my forearm while describing shadowing? The way her bedazzled cat earring dangles against my neck?

Oh shit. Now her other hand is on my back, creeping down toward my waist. Yup, she’s going for it. What the hell kind of class did Ellie sign me up for?

I look to Ellie for help, but she is clearly loving every minute of this. Her eyes tell me good-luck-with-crazy-cat-lady and her smirk says, where’s-the-popcorn? Damn her. She’s hanging me out to dry.

“I’ll try that, thank you,” I tell her, leaning forward in my seat, hoping to break contact with the hand that is still resting on my back. “Would you mind showing this technique to Ellie too?” I say, glancing at Ellie with a sly smirk.

Ellie blinks at me, mischief in her eyes. “I’m just fine over here but thank you, Liam. I think you could benefit from the extra instruction.”

“But Ellie, I insist. I think you would really like this technique,” I sneer, shooting daggers at her. Meanwhile, Emma’s other hand hasn’t left its position on my arm.

Ellie shakes her head, laughing as I attempt to dodge Emma’s roaming hands. I take a gulp of my wine and clear my throat.

“I beg to differ,” she replies, grinning. “This must be learned and learned by you.”

And so it goes. I continue to do my best to counter our handsy instructor, and Ellie continues to do everything she can not to laugh. It’s like she’s in church afraid to get caught giggling during the sermon. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Emma is impatiently beckoned by the beret-wearing man again and is finally forced to walk away.

“You enjoyed that a little too much,” I say, tugging on the end of Ellie’s ponytail. She squeals, throwing her head back in laughter.

“And you clearly didn’t. I couldn’t help it, sorry. You looked like your skin was in the process of strangling you, you were so uncomfortable.”

“You were no help. Thanks for nothing. You could have let her know you didn’t appreciate her feeling up your date,” I say, my voice laced with sarcasm.

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