Something was wrong, and that started up her anxiety. She sat down next to him and tugged on her fingers. “W-we really can do something else.”
He turned to her. Glanced at her hands, and then covered them with one of his own. “I want to draw the apples.”
Britt glanced down at his large hand covering both of hers.Maude was right.
Hunter removed it and sat back in the chair. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” She tucked her hands underneath her thighs. Problem solved.
He rubbed the back of his neck, then stopped, as if he realized he was performing his own nervous gesture. “How do you handle stress?”
“Not well, obviously.”
He jumped up from the chair and walked a few paces. “I’m not just talking about anxiety or nervousness. What do you do when you get upset?”
She tilted her head and looked at him. “We’re starting withmylesson?”
He froze, his eyes widening. “Uh, no.” He sat back down. “This is actually about me.” Then he quickly grabbed a box of pencils. “Never mind,” he mumbled, opening the box. “We use red first, right?”
Britt watched him fumble with the tab. She scooted closer to him, took the box from his hand, and set it back on the table. “My therapists always recommended exercise.” She gestured to her less than sculpted body. “But as you can see, I’m not a fan of that.”
His gaze flitted over her. He grinned, and it looked genuine. “You look fine to me.”
Warmth washed over her, but she set it aside, her cheeks flaming. He was nice—of course he’d tell her a white lie. She’d practically asked for a compliment anyway. She averted her gaze and put her hands under her thighs again. “Maude is a big proponent of calming teas. Chamomile, kava, things like that. X likes his essential oils, as you can tell.”
“Is that what I smell when I walk in the door?”
“Yep. He says it ‘enhances the customer experience.’”
Hunter chuckled. “I don’t know about that but whatever he’s spraying, it smells good.”
“Diffusing,” she corrected, her neck muscles relaxing. “My mom starts cleaning house when she’s upset. Or ‘dysregulated,’ as my therapists called it.”
He nodded, his good humor evaporating. “I run three or four times a week. I’ve got a physical job too. So exercise isn’t a problem.”
That explained his phenomenal physique.
“I don’t like tea,” he continued, “although I’m not opposed to trying it again. My roommate would ridicule me without mercyif I started spraying—excuse me,diffusing—essential oils in our apartment.”
She tried to think of something else. “Distraction can work.” Lord knows she used that enough, especially with her art.
“I’ve done plenty of that,” he mumbled.
“Well, there’s always talking about it too.” Britt moved her hands and set them on her lap.
Hunter scoffed. “That wasn’t done in my family. If you weren’t a certain way, you—” He pressed his lips together. “I’m sorry. I’m hijacking the lesson. And I’m supposed to be helping you feel better.”
“You are.” She held up her hands. They weren’t trembling, and she wasn’t tugging or pulling or sitting on them. “See?”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I’m not sure how that happened.”
She had a sudden epiphany, but it wasn’t going to paint her in a good light. “I think one of the reasons talking to someone else helps is because it takes the focus off ourselves and our own problems. It’s a form of distraction too. While I’m focused on you, I’m not so focused on me.”
“Did you learn that in therapy?”
“Kind of. My counselors wanted me to get out and do stuff. Help other people. Which I want to do, but that means I’d have to be around... people.”
He smiled, another sincere one. “You’ve helped me. I feel better than I did when I walked in here. And now I have a list of things I can do when I’m feeling on edge. Except the oils. Ain’t gonna happen.”
