Page 21 of Forever Winter

I nod. “You mentioned something about free labour?”

“I’ve got a list of grad students who’d be happy to volunteer their time. And like I mentioned, we should have all the supplies you need. What’s the timeline? Can we get it done before our fall showcase?”

“It’ll be tight. But give me… three days to prep and maybe a week to lay down the paint?” I gaze up at my canvas. The building is a twenty footer, much wider than it is tall with a few large windows overlooking the campus. Certainly not the biggest building I’ve tackled but it’s a lot of square footage to cover in the timeline I’ve promised. “So long as the weather cooperates, and your students can follow direction I shouldn’t have any problems.”

“Excellent. My assistant is out for the next few weeks, but Kate Mitchell is the keeper of our supply room. You can connect with her, and she’ll get you what you need. I understand the two of you are already acquainted?”

Is that what Kate and I are?Acquainted?Two days ago, she let me draw her naked. Two days ago, I watched her come while she fucked herself with her hand. Two days ago, she stuck her pussy soaked fingers in my mouth and I can still fucking taste her on my goddamn tongue. Yeah. I guess we’re acquainted.

“Very,” I say with a smile. “Any idea where I might find her now?”

“In her studio, I’d imagine. The woman never leaves the place if she can help it. Can you find your way there? Same place she teaches—second floor of the Arts Building.”

“I think I can manage.”

Professor Kim and I exchange a few more pleasantries before I make my way to Kate’s studio. I find her exactly as I expected—long blond hair tied up in a knot at the top her head, a paint stained smock covering her clothes, glasses on, face focused. She’s propped up on a stool, leaning close to a small painting that she’s obviously working to restore. She doesn’t hear me approach thanks to the small earbuds jammed in her ears, no doubt blasting a strange mix of classical symphonies and heavy metal and some weird subgenre she calls ‘bardcore’. The woman can go from The Barber of Seville to Taylor Swift to Megadeth to some tavern inspired rendition of Pumped up Kicks in the span of a few songs.

I tug on the cord and one of her earbuds pops out. Kate jumps and nearly drops her paintbrush. “James,” she yelps.

“Katie,” I say with a smile. My eyes drop to her hands—paintbrush in one, sparking diamond ring adorning the other. It’s much brighter today than it was two days ago or even that night at the gallery. It sparkles with every small movement she makes, taunting me.Look what you threw away.

The shock bleeds from her face and is quickly replaced with a scowl. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I hear you’re the woman to talk to about some paint.”

She narrows her eyes. “What are you up to?”

“I’m notupto anything. I’m doing a mural and I need paint. Your Program Director told me to talk to you. That’s it.”

There’s a moment where neither of us speak. Or move. Frozen in place again like that first night. And then she says, “Fine. What do you need?”

“What do you have?”

“Spray paint isn’t exactly a medium we use here.”

“This is a stretch across an entire building, Kate. I don’t need spray I need paint by the gallon. Buckets of it. Roller and brush mostly.”

“Right, ok,” she says, not looking at me. “Follow me.”

Kate leads me across her studio, past easel after easel holding old, yellowed paintings, some cracked and ripped, others with faded, flaking paint. We stop at a door and she unlocks it before I follow her inside. It’s a small room with floor to ceiling shelves home to paint bottles and brushes and varnish and glue. There are buckets and buckets of paint stacked against the far wall, and a pile of drop cloths next to it, paint stained much like the one I carry in my suitcase, that I hang on my wall when I need inspiration, when I needher.

“I’ll need more than this,” I say as scan the room. “And I got ten days to finish.”

She sighs. “Well… I mean I guess I could put in an order. If you tell me what you need and I order by tomorrow I could probably have it here in a couple days.”

“I’ll have my render done tonight. I’ll send you colours and quantities.”

More silence, and I’m hyper aware of how close I’m standing to her, how her shoulder feels brushing against mine. Maybe she feels it too, but she doesn’t budge. I push closer to her and she backs up, and I suddenly have her flush against a shelf.

“James,” she says, clearing her throat. “I’m… I’m engaged. That’s enough, okay? We can’t… be this close. And what happened the other night was not okay. Ethan’s a good man. And you’re—”

“And I’m not.” And I prove that by wrapping my arms around her and pulling her into my chest. And maybe I have a moment where my conscience pokes at my brain and so I’d only meant for it to be a hug. A quick embrace. One you might see between old friends maybe, but Kate’s never been just my friend. So when she’s this close to me I can’t help but let my hands drift too low down her back, I can’t help but dip my lips to the crook of her neck, I can’t help but breathe her in and savour how fucking good it feels when her body is pressed against mine. This. This is what I’ve been missing. Kate. Katie. Her smell and her taste and that goddamn laugh. The woman who’s been a kaleidoscope of reds and oranges and bright yellows in my murky mind of blacks and greys.

Her hands slide up my chest and I feel the moment when she melts against me, breathing into me the same way I breathe into her. Pulling back, I tip her chin up and steady her eyes on mine. Her gaze lingers on my face, and mine flickers down to that ring. That fucking ring glinting bright under the light pouring in from the single window on the wall next to us.

“I’m getting married,” she says again, but this time it’s a whisper. Raspy and needy and filled with the same fucking hunger that’s been tearing through me for the last sixteen months.

“Yeah, you keep saying that. But why aren’t you pushing me away, Katie?”

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