Dustin pulls up and I punch in Jera’s code, opening the gate. He parks the car by the front door. We pull off our hats and sunglasses, put them back in his canvas bag, and Dustin picks up the packages. We walk to Jera’s front door. Squint is happy to get out of his carrier, and he runs off to the yard to do his business.
“How long have you been painting?” he asks as I press in the code.
I run a nervous hand over my hair. I should be answering his questions as Jera, but since I already made that mistake, I have to answer as Mackenzie. “I was gifted some painting lessons when I was thirteen. I’ve been seriously painting ever since.”
He smiles as we walk into Jera’s entryway. “You’ve wanted to paint since you were thirteen?”
“I’ve wanted to paint my whole life, but we struggled financially when I was a kid. Dad left, and Mom and my sister and I had to move into our Aunt Helen’s house. We didn’t have money for frivolous things like art lessons. I used the cheap watercolors you get as kids, but I didn’t really flourish until I got lessons and learned how to use real watercolors.”
“Who gifted you the lessons?”
Unexpected emotion surges in me. “My sister.”
Jera was a lot of things. Self-centered and shallow sometimes, but she could be really awesome as well. She’d spent the summer babysitting the Sullivan boys just to pay for my lessons and supplies, and that was something special because the Sullivan boys were a handful.
I take the shopping bags from Dustin, and he follows me through the house and into the library where I’d set up my equipment.
“This is where you film your classes?” He runs a hand over my leather watercolor sketchbook.
“Yes.” I stand next to him and open the book so he can see my rough sketches and washes.
He turns each page slowly as he studies my work. I grow nervous as he flips each page. When he’s done, he turns to me. “Wow, Jera. I had no idea you were so talented.”
My heart does a little samba dance in my chest. It could have something to do with his close proximity. I wave a hand. “That’s just sketches and messing around.”
“Do you have any finished paintings?”
I nod, suddenly nervous to expose this part of myself. Yet, a part of me wants to. I want Dustin to see a part of the real me, not me pretending to be someone else.
“I’ll show you.” I take his hand, and immediately regret it. Warmth spreads through me as an electric current passes between us. I casually drop his hand after we get into Jera’s parlor. I face the painting I created for her, framed, and mailed to her last Christmas.
The painting was our view out Aunt Helen’s upper patio door in Larkspur. The red rock formations against the backdrop of the Colorado Rockies, the pine trees, and the clear, blue sky made the perfect landscape. I may have painted it, but God was the one who made it beautiful in the first place.
“Holy cow,” Dustin says under his breath. “You painted this?”
I elbow him. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I don’t think you realize how amazing this is.”
Heat warms my cheeks with the compliment. “Thank you.”
Dustin looks down at me. “My hobbies are lame compared to yours.”
“What are your hobbies?”
“Well, cooking, for one.”
I shake my head. “That’s totally not lame. I’ve tasted your cooking and you’re…” Unable to find the right word, I impulsively kiss my fingers in the universal symbol of a chef’s kiss.
Dustin smiles at that. “Really? That good, huh?”
I realize that could have been taken in a flirty way, and embarrassment floods through me. “Your food is better than most restaurants I’ve tried.”
His eyebrows lift in surprise, and I realize I’m speaking for Jera, who regularly frequents five-star establishments. Oops.
“Really?” He seems excited.
“Honestly,” I say, unable to backtrack. “You floored me yesterday.”
I decide to change the subject. “What other hobbies do you have?”
He gets a funny look on his face. “I do have one other hobby, but I’m not going to tell you what it is.”
I scoff. “Why? Is it illegal?”
He laughs. “No.”
“Then why wouldn’t you tell me?”
“It’s…embarrassing.” He shifts so he’s standing directly in front of me. I can feel the heat coming off his skin. It’s making my insides do funny things.
“How embarrassing can a hobby be? So, you collect stamps. Big deal. You write stories. Who cares? There is no embarrassing hobby.”
He raises one eyebrow in a challenge. “I knit.”
I press my lips together to stop myself from laughing at him. He’s totally serious, I can tell. “That’s not embarrassing,” I say, trying not to picture this big, brawny man in front of me knitting some baby booties.
Dustin shifts and stares at me, his gaze penetrating through me. “You’re trying so hard not to laugh right now.”
It’s a struggle, but I manage to keep a straight face. “Am not.”
“Liar.” He leans down so his face is only inches from mine. My pulse jumps. The urge to laugh dissipates as the mood shifts. My gaze dips to his lips and I swallow, desperately trying to remember why I can’t have a relationship with this man.
Jera. That’s why I can’t. I playfully push him away from me and force a laugh. “You’re totally playing me. You don’t knit.”
He doesn’t laugh with me. “I do.”
“Oh.” I shrug. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
He doesn’t say anything, but his gaze intensifies, and I want to lighten the mood again. “How did you start knitting?” I ask, taking a step from him.
“My parents were gone a lot when I was a kid. One of my nannies taught me how to do it to keep me busy.”
How sad. I try not to frown. “What have you made?”
“Potholders. Table runners. Things like that.” He turns back to my painting. “But it’s not really a remarkable hobby like this is.” He takes a step closer to examine the painting. “I’m amazed at how you can incorporate the way the paint flows onto the page into the scene.”
I suddenly realize my signature is on the bottom. I don’t have one of those scribble signatures. It plainly reads Mackenzie Davenport. I grab Dustin’s shoulders and turn him toward me. “I have another one in the living room. Come, I’ll show you.”
I take his hand and pull him out of the room. When we get into the living room I stop him just inside the doorway and point. “There. It’s better from back here,” I say lamely.
This painting is of a waterfall. It took me years to learn to paint water effectively. I’m super proud of this painting, but I can’t have Dustin getting too close and reading my signature.
Dustin politely stays back. “That’s incredible,” he says.
As he studies the work from afar, my gaze travels over mantle of the fireplace and I freeze. Jera has a photo of us on display. There we are, twin sisters, smiling at the camera. My heart lodges itself into my throat.
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