Page 50 of The Scars We Heal

She planted a hand on her chest, gasping in mock offense. “The ’80s are not old!”

“I think Whitley would beg to differ,” I teased.

With her small brush, she flicked paint onto my arm. “You’re only like three years younger than me!”

“Hey, I never said anything about me. I’m just going off what the kids are saying these days,” I said, flicking paint back at her.

A big clump landed in her hair, and her mouth gaped. “You did not just fling paint into my hair.”

“Payback.”

“Oh, yeah?” She grinned, reaching her hand into the paint tray before slinging a big glob at me.

“Careful, Cait. You have no idea what you’re trying to start.”

Her brows shot up. “Try me.” Stepping close, she pressed her hand directly in the middle of my chest, covering the Wranglers written on my shirt in yellow.

“Oh, it’s on.” I set my brush down and dipped both of my hands in the paint. “You better run.”

She laughed, shuffling to the other side of the room as I stalked toward her, yellow paint dripping onto the tarp we’d covered the floor with, a precaution I was now grateful for. It only took me about five steps before I caught her, grasping both her arms and pulling her back to my chest. Little did I know, she still had paint covering her hand, and she pressed her palm to my cheek, the coolness of the paint doing nothing to counteract the heat that radiated through my body.

I flipped her around so she was facing me again, wiping the paint off my cheek with my pointer finger before tapping it onto the tip of her nose.

Her teeth pressed into her bottom lip, and her eyes flicked up to mine.

Our breaths mingled in the air between us, the tension thickening in the room.

She pouted her lips, sucking in one of her cheeks, then ran back to the paint bucket, picking up a brush and covering it with the paint.

The chase was on again, but this time I was the one running. She came after me with the paint, swishing the brush like a sword in a duel. But I was prepared. When she got close enough to swipe paint across my chest and up my neck, I wrapped my arms around her, picking her up so she was partially over my shoulder.

“Jake!” she screeched, smacking her hand on my back, no doubt marking me with more handprints. “Put me down!”

“Okay, you asked for it.” I set her down next to the bucket, not allowing her to get away before I covered her arms and stomach in paint.

When she came after me again, I grasped her hands in mine, interlacing them.

Her eyes widened as shock flashed across her face, the split moment allowing me to move her until her back was against the wall.

Both of us were covered in paint, the floor speckled with drops of yellow.

I released her hands, letting them fall to her sides before cupping her cheek with one hand.

“Jake—” My name came out on a shaky breath, barely a whisper.

Shifting my gaze down to her full, pink lips and back up to her eyes, I murmured, “Yeah, Cait?”

Her eyes darted to my mouth, both of us staring but neither of us willing to make a move.

My thumb traced the apple of her cheek, drawing a line down to the corner of her mouth. Caitlin’s hands settled on my arms just below my shoulder, and I leaned in slowly, our lips drawing closer together.

“Is anyone home?” a voice called from the front door.

I jumped back from Caitlin, warmth climbing up my neck into my face. The tips of Caitlin’s ears turned red, the pink flush deepening into her cheeks as we both stood there speechless.

“Whoa, what happened in here?” Colter asked, now standing in the doorway of the bedroom, taking in the mess we’d made. His lips twitched in a subtle, knowing smirk, but he didn’t say anything else.

“Um, paint spill?” Caitlin threw out before looking behind her at the very obvious body mark against the wall.