Page 102 of Finding New Dreams

I shrugged, rubbing my thumb over her hand. “I didn’t want my life in L.A. to muddy my time here. I don’t want to be that person here. With you.”

“You don’t have to be anybody but yourself around me, Flynn.”

“That’s the thing, Rose, I feel most like myself when I’m with you.”

She smiled, and it was like the sun peeking out from behind the clouds, sending warmth through my chest. “That’s good, because I like this Flynn the best.”

I grinned and anchored her hand around my waist. She slid her other arm around me too. The warmth grew. “You’ve never seen any other Flynn. You might change your mind if you saw the ruggedly sexy playboy artist I am in California.”

“You can’t hide who you really are from me. I’ve seen you be a loving big brother, an inspirational teacher, an easy friend—”

“Don’t forget fantastic lover.”

She laughed. “I was getting there, Mr. Modest. But yes, a fant-orgasmic lover.”

I roared with laughter.

Drawing my chin down so she could look in my eyes, she continued, “The point is, you have a lot more value than your agent, your L.A. people, or even you give you credit for. Don’t sell yourself short.”

“What did I tell you about flattery?” I murmured, inching my way to those perfect lips.

“I’m hoping the truth is just as effective.” She brushed her lips against mine. “Now, are you going to lock that door and take me on this workbench or not?”

“Sweetheart, you read my mind.”

And as we did a thorough job of expelling every dark cloud and thought from the room, I tried to ignore the little pieces of my heart that kept deserting me for the beautiful woman in my arms who had no idea.

* * *

“That looks more like a giant cherry.”

I pulled back to study my painting of an apple. “You think? Why’s that?”

Hannah toyed with the end of her pigtail, her face scrunched. “It doesn’t curve like an apple. See?” She gestured to her painting, which did have a very curvy apple on it.

“Hmm, yeah, I see what you mean. What if I make this a cherry and paint an even bigger apple beside it?”

She laughed. “Like a giant’s bowl of fruit?”

“Exactly!”

“I s’pose that works. Using your imagination and all, like you said to. That way nothing is a mistake.”

I grinned, an unfamiliar pride rising at hearing my own words quoted back to me. “It can save even the most pitiful apple-cherries.”

She giggled and continued working on her bowl of fruit. Her classmates were also hard at work in Mrs. Q’s classroom. Everyone was in paint-splattered smocks. Even Mrs. Q, whose tongue was sticking out as she focused on her painting.

“Five more minutes!” I called out.

The flurry of movement grew more chaotic as my students rushed to finish. I wandered the room with words of encouragement and answers to worried questions.

“Okay, brushes down!” I said, and everyone obeyed. “Now, take your painting and face it toward the rest of your class.”

With flushed faces and whispers, the kids and Mrs. Q took their paintings off their easels and angled them so everyone could see.

I spread my arms wide. “Take a good, hard look at each artist’s rendition of a bowl of fruit. A simple idea, right? A bowl of fruit. Even ‘boring,’ as a few of you announced,” I added with a smile. “But look at how each painting is different.”

The murmuring increased as everyone craned their necks to study the others’ paintings.

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