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TWENTY
“You need more red, dear,”an older woman explained to me, gesturing toward my paint brush as if she was going to take it. She was the owner, and had greeted us with smiles almost immediately after we’d sat down. Apparently she had spoken to Ford on the phone about booking us in earlier, so that was all taken care of.
It was really damn nice to have things taken care of by someone other than me.
“I know, I’m not sure how to make it look like that,” I explained, gesturing toward the painting Ford and I were trying to recreate. It was a tree whose leaves had changed colors for the fall, with leaves blowing in the wind and on the ground and whatnot. Mine was way too orange, but every time I tried to add more red, it got too red, and I had to add more orange.
But then it was too orange.
She patted me on the arm. “You’ll figure it out, dear.”
I bit back a snort.
“I think she just called you a lost cause,” Ford murmured, cracking me a grin.
I mirrored his expression “I’d be pissed if she wasn’t completely accurate.”
My attention went back to my painting.
Definitely too orange.
Orange wasn’t so bad though; it could’ve been worse.
Deciding to leave the orange the way it was, I cleaned my brush off and focused on trying to create clouds. I was definitely copying what Ford was doing to make his own clouds, but he didn’t care. His painting wasn’t much better than mine, but at least the colors were somewhat accurate.
The perfectionist in me wanted to rear her ugly head, but Ford and I were having so much fun that I decided to just shove that part of me down and enjoy what we were doing. It was kind of fun to forget about perfection for a few minutes and just create something. Though I loved that there was a correct and incorrect answer when it came to anatomy and chemistry and my other classes, it was nice to do something that I knew I couldn’t truly do wrong.
Later, when the painting was done and looked shitty, I could throw the damned thing away.
As Ford had promised, there were all kinds of crackers and cheeses set out on a tray between our easels. We ate our way through the first tray, and a second, while we chatted and painted together. Ford told me stories about growing up with his brothers and packmates, and though I was hesitant at first, I opened up and told him about my mom. A lot of those memories were difficult ones, but after he got me started, he had me smiling about the happy memories I had of her.
It had been a long time since I focused on those happy memories, and it felt good to do so.
By the time we finished our paintings, the little shop was closing anyway. We thanked the couple running it and headed out, with Ford carefully carrying both of our canvases.
He spread a towel out in the trunk before setting them both down back there, and then we were off. After a quick stop at a drive through for even more food, we made it back to his place.
As he carried the canvases in, I felt an excited sort of nerves rushing through me. I knew I should probably study, but… well, I didn’t want to.
I wanted to get a head start on Ford’s schedule. To snuggle up with him and listen while he told me about his books, and, well, maybe to fool around a bit too. Ford was a massive distraction, but one I wasn’t sure I wanted to shake.
Okay, fine. I knew I didn’t want to shake him.
It was more a matter of knowing that I needed to shake him for the sake of my grades and scholarship, but not being able to. The wolf prevented it physically, but emotionally… well, emotionally, I couldn’t even consider walking away from him.
And that level of attachment already was slightly alarming, but not so alarming that I was willing to do anything about it.
Not that there was even anything I could do about it.
“I’ve got a schedule for you to look at,” Ford told me, grabbing his laptop off the kitchen table before taking my hand.
“Oh really?” I feigned shock. “You seemed so hesitant about the whole thing, I thought you’d take some time to think about it first.”
He cracked a grin. “You’re cute. Come on.” He led me to the couch, sitting down in the middle of the large sectional and dragging me down with him. Our sides pressed together as he opened his laptop, his arm draping over my shoulder and pulling me in closer.
He pulled up a week’s calendar, and my eyes scanned it quickly. He’d blocked out all of my classes, apparently remembering what times everything was at, as well as how long the breaks between them were.
He had scheduled every other weekday at “the townhouse” and “the dorm,” never specifying either place as belonging to one of us in particular, which felt significant to me.
