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Maybe this one.
I shuffled through my paintings like a deck of cards on one of those old Game Show Network programs. The oversized ones that were as big as the model.
Hmm. Okay, so maybe my paintings were more the size of mini billboards.
Too big.
What was I thinking? Why would anyone want to see these?
Martha from Songbird Gallery was just being nice. Probably felt sorry for me since I melted down in her gallery while looking at the Freida Kahlo exhibit. She probably thought I was just a crazy child with dreams of being an artist.
I should go back to the freelance work.
I had four requests in my email right now. It was easy money. I could do the contemporary gig in a few hours. It was even an interesting article they wanted me to illustrate.
Not as interesting as the painting on my make-shift studio. I’d spent hours hiding—I mean drawing studies—of my mom’s orchids. Just because it was the only place Ian couldn’t find me didn’t mean the studies hadn’t been important.
In fact, the diary piece was turning out more interesting by the day.
My mother’s hands caring for the blooms on her favorite plant. The plate-sized purple blooms of the Pachara glowed thanks to some cool luminescent medium I’d found. As if my mother’s touch made it come alive.
Add in a forest of blooms. Some blurry, some crisp, and it actually ended up being one of my favorites of the series I started since I’d been back at Happy Acres. Even if the orchids had replaced me.
“Wow.”
My shoulders stiffened. “Shouldn’t you be doing something? I don’t know, slurping moonshine off the floor with Hayes?”
Ian came through the door. “I’m trying to get along with your brothers, Magic. Moonshine was just a way to bond.”
“Like you bonded with the bushes the other night?”
“I was unaware of just how potent Hayes’s chemistry lesson would be. However, I have learned how to make his favorite Apple Pie version. Even Aunt Laverne liked it.”
“Good for you.” I slammed my palette on the table.
He leaned against the post just outside my work area. His shoulders had bronzed in the endless sunny days of the summer. Even Ian and his British skin had to brown or perish in the grove.
And it had definitely not perished. Rat bastard.
Nope, he was settling in just fine with the crew in the orchard. He’d gone from crying about blisters, and waking up at five in the morning to rolling out of his nest of blankets before his alarm chimed.
His riot of curls wouldn’t be contained in the bandanas he wore anymore. Now he had a stubby man bun going on that Justin teased him about mercilessly. But he hadn’t cut his hair again.
Because I’d taken such offense or just to be contrary, it didn’t much matter. It was growing and the silky curls were following me into dreams.
Bastard.
“Are we having a rough painting day, love?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“All right. Are we having a rough painting day, Magic?”
“Why does it have to be a nickname? Always. Can’t it just be my name?”
One ebony brow arched. “I didn’t come in here to be sniped at, lo—Zoe.”
“Well then why don’t you go?”
