Page 2 of Love Beyond the Diamond

Right?

“I need to get more sleep,” I mutter, rubbing my fist against my left eye.

When my knuckles come back smeared with black, I groan. I forgot I’d painted wingtips this morning. It was the only way to relieve that tight coil in my chest from not touching a canvas in months. Using liquid eyeliner isn’t the same as wielding a brush, but it’s as close as I could get today.

Maybe I should fold my arms over the bar again and give up on today. Delilah can wake me when Dr. Auerbach is done doing the worm in the middle of our office’s dance circle. A part of me wishes the man next to me didn’t have whip-fast reflexes. If I was covered in sticky soda, it’d be the perfect excuse to head home without letting anyone down.

Ignoring the gnawing pit in my stomach, I draw in a shaky breath and square my shoulders. Then I do what I always do when things go sideways: I prompt myself with This is good because…

When my boyfriend of three years broke up with me: This is good because it gives me a chance to be single and really get to know myself.

When I overheard my closest art friends ruthlessly mocking my paintings: This is good because now I know they’re not true friends, and I can make new ones.

Both of those back-to-back events led to my move to Virginia Beach.

A pitiful whine escapes me when I see the guy who won’t leave me alone walking toward the bar. It’s hard to miss him in that purple metallic short-sleeve button-down and jorts.

My eyes press closed as I remind myself, “This is good because you get to practice holding your boundaries. If creepy guys didn’t hit on you, you wouldn’t get to stand your ground.”

The second the words are out of my mouth, the man next to me crowds into my space. I’m transported to a pine grove when he places his boot on the bottom rung and extends a muscled arm over the back of my chair. His scent is…familiar? Like I’ve smelled this particular combination of woodsy top notes with a warm spicy undertone before.

It reminds me of being snuggled into a cozy sweater, drinking a spiced cider, while staring at green-wrapped branches. Mentally, I give myself a shake. I’m probably just remembering one of the many camping spots Mom took me as a kid because we couldn’t afford to stay at a motel.

“Which guy?” he practically growls.

I shiver at the sound of his deep voice so close to my ear.

“The one in purple.”

When he cranes his neck over his shoulder, I catch sight of the amber stubble on his spectacular jawline. You might think I’m just ogling Mr. Grumpypus, but it’s my job to notice details as a hyperrealist painter. Up until recently, my life revolved around shapes, light, and proportion. Now, I’m rushing between the vet clinic, the coffee shop, and cleaning luxury condos. Not exactly where I saw myself at twenty-four after attending one of the most prestigious art schools in the country.

His muscles tense as he focuses on the approaching man. When they lock gazes, he slowly slides his thumb across his throat.

My eyes widen as a surprised breath punches from me. “Did you just threaten to off Shiny Shirt?”

All I get is a caveman-like grunt before he takes a sip of his drink, his left arm still draped possessively over my chair. It’s at this exact moment that I realize I made a huge mistake. I traded an annoying man for a dangerous one. One who looks like he could snap my femur singlehandedly, who currently has me boxed into the corner.

What was I saying about this being good? Something about boundaries?

Yes, I just need to tell this mafia boss that I’d like him to remove his tattooed forearm from my chair.

Easy peasy.

“Could you…” I pause, distracted by the thrumming pulse in my neck. “Could you, um…”

When his eyes meet mine, our faces close, my words halt with a shaky exhale. He has the most gorgeous green eyes I’ve ever seen. Their asymmetry is the first thing I notice. The color blends unevenly between his two irises, almost like they’re two entirely different landscapes. Add in the dark outer ring and a handful of golden flecks on the far-right side, and I’m already strategizing how I’d accurately capture them.

“What do you need?”

When gentle concern wisps across his forehead, the anxiety sprinting through my veins stops cold. Though the planes of his face remain sharp and foreboding, his gaze grows impossibly soft. The juxtaposition has me blinking hard.

What was it that I wanted again?

“Uh.” I laugh, tugging on the edge of my bangs.

All of a sudden, his lips swoop into a deep frown. “Your breath.”

I cover my mouth, mortified. “I’m sorry.”