Page 70 of Finding New Dreams

“That’s kind of the point,” he said, as if he’d read my mind. “I really liked what you said the other day about using all your senses when you want to get inspired. The tree painting just sort of grew out of my imagination—pun not intended—and I had to work really hard to get the exact effect I wanted. But this one I wanted to be less about technique and more about…feeling. Like the other day in the studio.”

I bit my lip, the playfulness that led to being in his arms flashing through my mind. Just how “sensory” was he hoping to get? Because my imagination was in overdrive. The scent of his clean skin and hair. The warmth of his muscular arm pressed against my side. The river’s murmurs mixed with his soft breaths.

I licked my lips. What would he taste like? He’d tasted like hot whiskey that first time. What would it be now?

“Okay, let’s try it,” I said.

Wordlessly, he handed me a brush and showed me where the paints were.

I peered at them. “I can’t tell what colors they are.”

“You don’t need to. I don’t want this to be about accuracy or how pleasing to the eye it can be. I want it to be about touch, feel, sensation. I want to know how the experience differs.”

A thought struck me like a lightning bolt. “Have you done stuff like this with other artists?” I almost said “women,” but stopped myself.

He hesitated a moment, then said, “No. Whenever I collaborated with another artist, it was always to learn from each other and look for our next inspiration. Outside of that, I didn’t socialize with them as much as social media might have you believe. It made for good publicity, though.”

A knot loosened in my stomach. “Oh, that’s good. I mean, good for all of you. Artists should support other artists and all that.” Face. Palm.

He chuckled, a deep, beautiful sound that roused ripples of goosebumps over my skin. “Exactly. I wouldn’t be where I’m at today without their support. And yours.” He bent close to my ear and rumbled. “Now do what I say, Rose, and dip your brush into the paint.”

My hand shot forward, and I missed the paint completely. Steadying my arm and my nerves, I took a deep breath and dipped the brush into a dark paint. Then I brushed across the bottom-left corner of the canvas. Maybe it was indigo, maybe it was black or navy. But it would be the dark shrubs.

“Good,” he whispered in my ear. “Nice, slow, even strokes. Beautiful.”

Each word tickled my ear and set my veins on fire. My skin sizzled with tension.

I shakily dipped the brush into the same paint and continued to fill in the corner.

“And what about texture?” he asked.

“Texture?” I croaked.

He shifted, reaching for something, then clasped my free hand and gently rubbed some sand over my palm. “Like this.”

“Oh,” I breathed, my eyes closing for a beat.

He brushed the sand away. Then lifted my hand to caress the stubble over his jaw. “Or this.”

I brushed my thumb over his cheek once, and his jaw flexed. “I know what you mean.”

Taking some of the sand we’d discarded, I rubbed it through the still-wet paint of my shrubs, making it gritty.

“Perfect,” he whispered. “A bit of Tangled River to carry along.”

“What next?”

“Pick a different color. For the river.”

His fingers toyed with my skirt again, but I wished they’d stayed on my skin.

“I—I need water. For my brush.”

“By your other knee.”

I quickly cleaned the brush and was debating over a color when he spoke again.

“Wait. Close your eyes and listen to the river for a moment.”

---