Pressing the red lever, I was sure that no time had passed at all.
“Done already?” Rhett commented with a raised brow as he collected the last of the pieces. He traced his gloved finger across the most recent cut. “Good work, Georgie. I’m impressed.”
Heat clung to the air, thick as syrup. A small highway of sweat had formed down my spine, and my hair must’ve been half-matted, half-frizz-ball. Of course, the developing ease between us didn’t help either. Rhett seemed to be increasingly comfortable with me—which, albeit, was what I wanted—but every crinkly-eyed smile sent a fireball bursting in my chest.
If this wasfriendship, I was in serious trouble.
The goggles made a ridiculous suction noise when I ripped them off. “It wasn’t rocket science,” I replied, my lips lifting at the corners. “What else do you have for me? Hammers? Nails? Oooh, nailgunslook interesting.”
Rhett’s face paled and he quickly shook his head. “No—ah, I mean… how about you take a break with something a little more tame for a while?”
The new project he assigned me involved several buckets of paint and a limited supply of brushes shoved in the corner like an after thought. He watched me as I put my hands on my hips and frowned at the tower of pails and the stack of signs. I sucked my teeth and finally met his gaze.
“Youwere going to make signs for the booths?”
A faint blush rose to his cheeks. “It was part of the project. They needed signs.”
“But you didn’t need to,” I quipped as a bubble of frustration grew. “I could’ve been in charge of this. Why didn’t anyone ask me?”
Rhett stared at me as if I spontaneously began speaking a foreign language. “You can do them right now,” he drawled, eyebrows stitching together.
I drew a long breath and fanned myself. Heat pressed in from every side. Rhett was too close, even with space between us. And he just keptdoingthings for me at the behest of people who didn’t think I could handle it all.
So, I rolled up my proverbial sleeves and got to work. They were in for a surprise.
Thankfully, lettering didn’t scare me. Every year, my grandmother had me paint a new Marigold’s sign—partly because they got battered by storms and the sea air, and partly because she insisted that each one was better than the last. I knew she had to say that. But it was still nice to hear.
The sign for Gulliver’s Books came first—Joe’s booth would have special editions as well as a clearance selection. The latter was his one-time-a-year offer; he didnotbelieve in sale sections on a regular day. Using a scrap of wood I found in the corner while Rhett wasn’t looking, I created a makeshift palette and mixed a set of jewel tones.
I hadn’t realized how dialed in I was until Rhett’s voice resonated above me. I had no idea what he said, either, because I wobbled at the sound, from my crouched position and into the can of yellow paint.
“Rhett!” I yelled, lunging forward, but it was too late. A lake of paint had already formed on his previously spotless concrete floors.
Groaning, I dragged the can upright before it emptied completely. In my scramble to save it, I dipped my elbow andboth my hands straight in. The air was sweltering now. With a deep grimace, I tipped my chin up.
Rhett looked at me, then at my dripping limbs, and finally pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Artistic choices?” I said weakly, paint splattering the floor further as I stood.
His lips twitched. “You’re a menace.”
“Youdidneed some color in here.”
“Color,” he repeated flatly, though his eyes betrayed a sparkle. He crossed the space, pulled a rag from his back pocket, and dabbed at my arm. Yellow smeared carelessly onto his palms, his fingers brushing my wrist and lingering just a second too long.
For one searing moment, our gazes met. My head felt fuzzy. Rhett’s hands flexed at his sides. The room tilted—or maybe he did.
And the door swung open.
“Well, well, well,” a voice drawled.
I spun around, nearly tripping over the rag that had dropped on my shoes. Well, those weren’t white anymore. Janice waltzed through the doorway, and Frank trailed right behind her with a pie dish in his grip. Both of them wore teasing grins.
“Afternoon, kids,” Frank spoke as he approached. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”
Janice’s eyes flicked from the paint on the floor, to my arms, to Rhett, who was now rapidly wiping the remnants of paint on his pants. Each attempt left a new streak, the vibrant yellow against his black work pants glaring like neon lights.
“Busy, huh?” she said in a sing-song voice. “That what they call it these days?”
