Page 71 of Finding New Dreams

I did as he said. My other senses sharpened, acutely aware of his presence hovering just inches away.

He gave me a moment then asked, “What color does it sound like to you?”

I smiled. “Like silver. The higher-pitched burbling sounds silver. The lower undertones, the bulk of the river, sound like someone in a deep slumber…maybe dark gray or black?”

“Maybe a mix then. Deep violet as well?”

“Ooo, yeah, that sounds beautiful.” I opened my eyes and met his intense gaze. Swallowing hard, I asked, “Do you have those colors?”

He pointed. “Try this one…this one…and this one.”

I dipped my brush and swept a long, curvy, dark streak across the canvas. It must be the violet or black. I worked in silence for a minute or two, mapping out the colors, swirls, and highlights of the moonlit river. I could feel Flynn watching me, studying my work.

Then I sat back, my lips twisted in thought. “How do you think the river would feel?”

“We could find out.”

I glanced back at him. His dark hair shadowed his features. “Right now? It’s probably cold. And the current can be strong. Plus, fish,” I added with a grimace.

He chuckled. “What if we wade out just a bit?”

He stood up and extended his hand to me. Heart pounding, I accepted it, and he lifted me to my feet. Then he tugged me along behind him over the few feet of sand separating us from the silver-and-black water.

I shivered.

Releasing me only to remove his boots and socks then roll up his pant legs, Flynn caught my hand again, interlocking our fingers. “Ready?”

With my skirt bunched up in my other hand, I nodded.

We stepped forward.

Cold water slid over my toes as they sank into the waterlogged sand. I gasped, and Flynn’s fingers tightened around mine.

We waded in up to our ankles.

“Definitely chilly,” he said. “But what else? Close your eyes and tell me. I’ve got you.”

It was harder to close my eyes this time, but I did. “It’s like cold satin over warm skin. There’s a push and pull that probably turns to pure force the further in you go.”

“Yes,” he whispered. “Do you trust me?”

For a moment, my fear threatened to swallow my desire. I wanted to do this painting. I wanted to know how the river felt at night. I wanted to experience these things with Flynn.

Would it hurt me to trust him?

Would it hurt worse not to?

I nodded, my eyes still closed. Water splashed as he waded further out. Then, he must’ve turned to face me because his other hand clasped mine—still holding my skirt up—and tugged me closer to him.

The river swirled around my calves, then up to my knees. Bits of grass along the river bottom tickled my toes and ankles. I held tightly to Flynn, as if he were a strong tree rooted in the rapid water.

“How does it feel now?” he asked.

“Like it wants to tug me away. Whisk me along to wherever it wants to go.”

His voice rumbled closer to me. “Would that be so bad?”

My eyes opened to see his face only inches from mine. The moon lit up half of him in silver. But I didn’t need the light to feel the tension in his body or hear it in his voice.

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