I point my toes inward on the bench, raising my heels as I look at his angled features. “It’s not that.” I take a deep breath, knowing how this will come across. “I was sketching you.”
Cam’s mouth drops open, and he blinks a couple of times before laughing. “That’s not at all what I expected you to say.”
I send a a slow, unimpressed blink.
He adjusts his glasses, crossing one leg over his knee. “You didn’t know it was me, did you?”
“Nope.” Now I smile. “I came out here to work on the horse I rode this morning, but I saw your profile and couldn’t resist. I always tell my students to sketch the things that won’t leave them alone whenever it’s possible.”
“You teach art?”
“Mhmm. Middle school.”
The look of pure pity that crosses his face is one I see often. “You must have a will of steel to walk into all that preteen angst every day.”
Shrugging, I say, “I love it.”
“That’s so great, Mallory. They need their teachers to love it. It’s not an easy time for anyone.” He smiles. “You’ve got some dark and prickly in you.”
“So I’ve been told.”
I step off the table and hand him my iPad. “This is your sketch. If you swipe left, you’ll see the sketches of Cinnamon.”
He studies the drawing of himself before viewing the horse drawings. He takes his time, zooming in here and there.
“Your eye detailing is incredible.”
“Thank you.”
He hands the iPad back to me, our fingertips brushing. His fingers are warm and slightly rough from his work. Before I can do anything about it, my brain wonders what that roughness would feel like along my jaw. Or other places. I set the iPad on my knee, pulling my hand back before it gets any ideas. I already drew the man once tonight. I’m not giving it more opportunities for mayhem.
Cam settles back into the chair like he owns it, picks up his guitar, and strums a tune that is vaguely familiar. It brings to mind a horse ambling along.
After a minute, I smile. “Happy Trails?”
He gives a half-grin. “Seemed fitting.”
He changes tunes to the one he was playing near the water, its notes a little edgy for a country ballad. I swipe to Cinnamon’s face sketch, adding to the detailing around her snout. Cam and I work in companionable silence, neither interrupting the other, our energies working together somehow.
At some point the pond goes quiet except for the cicadas and the soft notes between us, and I realize I’ve been sitting here for an hour without once thinking about my to-do list, my boys’ schedule, or whether I remembered to order more paintbrushes before I left Indigo Hills.
That’s either very good or very dangerous.
“I should get back,” I finally say.
He stops playing, setting his guitar across his lap. “Yeah.” He doesn’t tell me to stay, but he also doesn’t look away.
I retie one of Kate’s sneakers, buying myself three seconds I don’t need. “Goodnight, Cam.”
“Night, Prickly Pear.” The way he says my name is unhurried, like he’s in no rush to stop saying it.
I walk back toward the cabins and almost make it to the tree line before I realize I’ve been smiling the whole way. I press my lips together.
Turns out 3 a.m. is cheaper than therapy, too. I’m not telling Kate that.
Chapter 5
Walker
