Authors: Alex Kidwell
Honestly, I couldn’t tell if she was kidding or not. “That’s
Eliza
Doolittle.”
“Whichever. Anna’s all of them. Even the singing one.”
“Yeah,” I agreed with a little smile. “She is.”
“So is Brady, hon,” Tracy said simply. “You got lucky twice. God knows why, because you’re kind of a brat.”
“Oh, no, what’s that? You’re going through a tunnel?” I was grinning by then, even as Tracy laughingly shouted her protests that she was still parked. “I’m losing you. Oops, you’re gone.” Ending the call, I stared down at the sketches. For a long time, it was just me and them as I listened to the story they were telling me. The potential they had.
I paged through my contacts to find one other number. “Hey, Anna? Your wife is crazy. Also, uh, do you still have that opening at the gallery next month?”
I
WOUND
up at Brady’s door only a few minutes after six. He’d mentioned wine, my usual default contribution, so I’d stopped at the bakery just down from my shop and picked up a couple of red velvet cupcakes. I’d also indulged my need to be an absolute idiot and gotten a bouquet of sunflowers. Which I’d wavered on, back and forth, the whole taxi ride over to Brady’s apartment. I’d very nearly just given them away to a random person on the street, but when Brady opened the door, I was still holding them, sheepishly handing them off to him with a “Hey. Uh, sorry I’m late.”
“No problem. I just opened the wine.” He was grinning at me. “Did you bring me flowers?”
I rolled my eyes and laughed when he caught my arm to kiss me, happily sinking into the embrace. “Yes,” I admitted, though I wasn’t sure how I could pretend I wasn’t a giant dork. “They just looked so happy when I walked past. I couldn’t resist.”
He ushered me inside, hand at the small of my back. There was this warmth on his face as he fussed over the flowers, arranging them in a vase, shooting little smiles over at me the whole time. It was kind of incredible. Like if I could capture even a hint of that and bottle it up, I’d be able to heal puppies and make rainbows out of gumdrops. It was a good feeling, just watching him. Knowing I’d managed to do something right.
“I also splurged on dessert,” I told him, flipping open the bakery box.
“Oh my God, red velvet.” Brady swiped some of the frosting, waggling his eyebrows at me as I batted his hand. “You are a terrible tempter, Mr. O’Malley.”
“You enjoy it far too much, Mr. Banner,” I returned, catching his hand with mine and kissing his knuckles.
We were easy together. It always had been
easy
with Brady, but now that I was remembering how this went, how the steps could work, it felt
good
, too. It felt like we were settling into something.
“You’re a mess.” I looked up at Brady to find him inspecting my hands, nose wrinkled. “What is all over you?”
Glancing down, I laughed, a short burst of noise. “Oh, crap. I thought I got it all.” I moved to the sink and washed up while Brady followed me with a frown. “It’s charcoal. I get it everywhere, but I thought I’d managed to look a little less like a hobo.”
There was a beat, and then Brady caught my shoulder, turning me back to him. “You were drawing?” he asked, feeling his way, careful not to pry too hard. He absently picked up a dish towel and dried off my hands for me. It was an impossibly sweet gesture, and I smiled up at him for it.
“Yeah. I, uh, got inspired last night. Figured I might as well give it a try.” Pausing, rolling the words around in my head first, I offered, “I, um, I took Anna up on her offer. Of a show? I’m taking two weeks next month.”
The grin that broke across his face was absolutely breathtaking. “Oh my God,” he said softly, a thrill in his voice. Wrapping his arms around me, he whooped, loudly, spinning me around. I was laughing by the end of it, stunned by his reaction, but his excitement was far too infectious. “Oh my
God
, babe, this is so great! This is… okay, we are
so
not staying in tonight. You and me, we’re celebrating.”
“Brady,” I protested, but it was hard to with my arms around his neck, with his exuberance spilling out into my own smile. “Trust me, staying in with you is my idea of a perfect evening.”
“Well, we have to do something,” he insisted.
“Um, hello. I brought cupcakes.” I arched an eyebrow at him, because obviously cupcakes were a celebration in and of themselves. Brady merely snorted a laugh, though, and kissed me deeply until I was leaning back against the counter and I’d completely forgotten what we were talking about.
Damn him. That was a far too effective method for changing my mind.
“There has to be something we can do to celebrate.” He was giving me that slow, mischievous smile, the one that made heat surge from my gut straight south.
“Well,” I drawled, doing my best to look innocent. “I do need some more paints.”
He paused for a beat before huffing out a laugh, the sound growing as I tugged on his lower lip. “You are mean,” he pouted. “I’m doing my best to be all charming and sexy.”
“Oh, you are,” I assured him, hands slipping around his waist, teasing in under his shirt. “I just really need paint.”
“Well, far be it for me to deny you anything.” Brady put the cork back into the wine, checking the oven and then turning the heat down. “We’ve got about forty-five minutes before this goes from warm to rubber. Think we can make it?”
“There’s an art supply store two blocks over.” I tugged my gloves back on, and Brady wrapped the cashmere scarf around my neck, pausing to kiss me lightly as he did so.
“Then we have our mission.” Holding out his arm for me to take it, he led the way out the door. He locked up behind us and tugged his phone out of his pocket as we headed down the stairs. Off my questioning glance he just smiled, dialing while we made our way onto the sidewalk.
“Anna, it’s Brady. Quinn just told me.” Brady’s arm tightened around my waist and I leaned into him, letting the wind curl around us. We walked through piles of drifted leaves, footsteps crunching a path. “I know, it’s freaking awesome. We’re heading out right now to buy paints.”
I could hear Anna’s laugh, like church bells, and I nudged Brady with my shoulder. “And we have cupcakes,” I reminded him quietly. “Don’t forget the cupcakes.”
“How could I forget cupcakes?” He sounded scandalized, our fingers tangling together, resting against my hip as we dodged around a woman walking her dog, as the wind played catch with the autumn leaves. “Anyway, Anna, who do you have doing the event that week?” Apparently whatever name she said was not impressive to him. Brady’s nose creased up and he shook his head. “Okay, here’s what is going to happen. You are hiring me that week. Whatever you’re paying that schmuck with a hard-on for pastels, you’re knocking off twenty percent and that’ll be my fee.”
Shocked, I pulled back a little. I knew Annabeth’s gallery. It had an impressive array of artists, mostly through Anna’s hard work, but it was fairly minimalist. She wasn’t one for splurging on events. And I’d seen what Brady did. He was kind of out of Anna’s league.
“Brady,” I started, but he just leaned into my side, kissing my cheek. “You don’t have to do that.”
Annabeth was saying the same thing on her end of the phone. “Both of you hush. My boyfriend is not going to have some raggedy cheese tray and cheap wine at his opening. I want to do this.” He fixed me with a look, arching an eyebrow. “Seriously, babe. This is kind of my thing. Let me do this, okay?”
After a beat I nodded, and Brady beamed at me. I admit it was kind of ridiculously sweet he wanted to make a big deal about the opening. Of course, it just made me worry I was going to bomb out big time—it’d been more than two years since I painted. What if I sucked? What if I’d always sucked and now everyone would know it? I’d had shows before, sure, but for some reason this felt like I was doing it all over again for the first time—same nerves as I’d had when I was eighteen and managed to convince a gallery owner to give me two feet of space to display my work.
But Brady’s arm was warm around me, and he kept smiling as he and Anna discussed particulars and he talked about fabrics and menus. That cold knot of worry in my gut eased, just a little. I could do this. Aaron used to tell me I was never more
myself
than when I was creating, when I had a brush in my hand. When I painted he could see the entirety of my soul laid out bare in colors and strokes. For so long I’d been convinced whatever spark I had was taken with Aaron, had withered and fallen with him. Now, though, I thought I had just been waiting for a new story.
The art shop was nearly empty, and we spent a good twenty minutes just poking around, Brady happily carrying the basket while I hunted for just the right materials. I loved this smell, the oil and turpentine, the heavy weight of brushes between my fingers, the rough white expanse of canvases begging to be used. When we headed back to Brady’s apartment under our heavy load of bags, I felt
good
. I felt like the jagged pieces were finding a new way to fit and maybe, maybe, I could recapture a little bit of what I used to be.
I set my things aside while Brady fussed over the frittata. Wine was poured and we settled in, comfortable together, enjoying the meal. I put on some music, and Brady told me about his day, about upcoming projects, about meetings and menus and developing a bacon-wrapped cod entree for a wedding. I loved to listen to him; there was such excitement in his voice as he described his events, a kind of easy happiness and confidence in what he was doing. He was a storyteller, just as much as I was; his canvases were rooms and plates, but his art was no less vivid.
And he’d been right, all those weeks ago. I was completely smitten.
The memory made me laugh and Brady paused, fork halfway to his mouth, fixing me with a look. “Everything alright, Quinn?” he asked, confused smile curving up one corner of his lips.
“I was just thinking about what you told me, the night we first met.” Reaching across the table, I brushed his hair back, expression soft when he turned to catch my fingertips in a kiss. “You were right. I am smitten.”
The grin that crossed his face was nothing short of breathtaking. Pushing my plate back, I tugged him to stand with me, ignoring the dishes and the half-empty glasses of wine. Eyes on his, I pulled him back toward his bedroom, my own smile growing while his turned positively wicked.
With a laugh he pushed forward, catching me, our breaths mingling into a kiss. Clothes were tugged off and left behind, bare skin found its match, and both of us forgot everything for a while. The strands of music mingled with panted gasps, with moans, with the quiet cry of ecstasy. I came with his name on my lips, his mouth around me, my hands threaded in beautiful blond curls. And for a time, for an endless hour, it was only the two of us. And I was happy.
W
E
’
D
eaten cupcakes in bed, and I painted frosting trails down his stomach and licked him clean. The memory still made a jolt of heat hit me; Lord knew I’d never look at a cupcake the same way again. He’d laughed, God, and it felt like the world was all right. Like all that grief and mourning I’d buried myself in was melting, bit by bit, dripping away in the light of his spring. He’d been sensual and sweet and I responded, I’d been carried away in it.
Sleep had come easier with him beside me. Waking up next to him had made the whole morning seem better. Such simple domesticity was almost painfully dear, now that I knew how it felt to lose it all.
Making breakfast, splitting the last cup of coffee, discovering he liked enough cream in his to turn it pale but no sugar—“Moderation,” he’d teased, with a sleep-tousled smile—every moment of newness was becoming a favorite. How he clutched the pillow in his sleep; how we used the same shampoo; how he warmed my towel in the dryer while I showered; how much we seemed to
fit
. I’d wanted to stay there forever, to compare childhoods and favorite meals and watch old movies until we fell asleep again. But sadly, reality had intruded.
Now he was at work and I was back in my studio, charcoal sketches pinned around me, materials at hand, and a blank, accusing canvas staring at me. Waiting.
“What are you looking at?” I muttered to it crossly, fiddling with first one brush and then the other. Trying to find the perfect one.
I was stalling. There was nothing more terrifying than a completely empty page, than an untouched canvas. All the
possibilities
of what I could imagine were still out there, until that first stroke. Before I began was when I was most afraid; it was when all the half-formed ideas and imaginings were still clamoring to be heard.
Picking up the phone, I dialed Brady’s number, patiently waiting through the rings. When he answered I asked, without preamble, “I need you to yell at me.”
There was a pause and he huffed out a laugh. “I don’t suppose you’re going to provide a topic?”
“I’m just sitting here, looking at the canvas. I need to be motivated.” I settled onto my stool, contemplating my brushes again. “So you should yell at me.”
Brady hummed an agreement; I could hear him moving, the sound of a door closing. Then, loudly, he commanded, “Quinn O’Malley, get your pert ass in gear and paint
something
.”
I’d jumped at the volume of his voice, nearly knocking the paints to the ground. Okay. That was definitely yelling.
“Did it work?” he asked.
“You’re very authoritative,” I assured him. The ice had been broken, though. The tense, horrible knot of “I can’t” had faded a bit, and I chose my brush, dipped it into the blue mixed with a bit of white, and slid the bristles across the fabric in front of me. It was a beginning, a humble one, but with that the floodgates were opened. I absently put my phone on speaker and set it on the table while I worked.
“And you aren’t even listening to me anymore, are you?” Brady’s voice came from the cell, and I merely made a quiet noise of agreement, moving to a red-gold next. “Fine,” he continued. “I can take a hint. But keep this Thursday open. I told you I’m going to be hugely busy for the next few days, but Thursday night, my family is going to be in town. I want them to meet you.”