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He hopped out of the truck bed and walked to the cab and pulled out a jacket. “You’ll want this.”
I didn’t argue. Instead, I slipped on the thick jacket and my stomach did a flip when I inhaled the scent. It was more than cedarwood, more than his cologne, it was justhim.
He took my hand and led me down the small path to the beach. “Reminiscing of your high school bonfire nights?”
He scoffed. “I can relive those anytime. Some people will never grow out of that town.”
I bit my lip. I was trying, holy hell, I wastryingto get out of there.
He held onto my hand, and the warmth from his palm spread up my arm. I was never one for human touch. It always seemed far too intimate, too strange. Why would I let someone touch my skin when I wouldn’t dare let them know what was really on my mind? Touching was too intimate. And yet with Trask, it felt normal.
“Where are we going?” I finally asked.
He only held my hand tighter. “It’s a surprise.”
I couldn’t help but smile along with him. I felt like a kid, maybe I was finally getting to live a memory I never had, running around with friends and chasing butterflies or something.Joke’s on you, Eliza, the butterflies are taking flight in your stomach right now.
“Here we are,” he finally said, slowing down once we reached a small creek. “Well, almost there.” He pulled me along with him and we hiked up the creek, following the water along the bank and ravine. The occasional car in the distance and the running water were the only sounds keeping us company. Eventually, we came to where the road would be, and in front of us was a beautiful bridge spanning the length of the ravine and creek.”
“It looks impressive now, but in the summer, when the snowmelt finally happens, the water swells and you understand why such a big bridge was necessary. Isn’t she beautiful?”
“Man, I knew this was too good to be true,” I laughed.
He whipped his head around. “What?”
“It’s always downhill when guys refer to inanimate objects as female.”
Trask winked and sat on a log, pulling me down with him. “Her name is Aurora.”
I rolled my eyes.
“No, seriously.” He pulled a sketchpad from his coat and a pen. Those damned butterflies came back, screaming at me from the inside, making me squirm. “The architect named it after his daughter. Sweet, right?”
“I guess.” I was mesmerized by the sketches in his book as he flipped through them, clearly looking for something. Then I saw it. A half-formed sketch featuring the bridge we were sitting in front of. Aurora, apparently. The sketch was from the same vantage point we sat on.
“This is beautiful,” I said, too afraid to get closer to the drawing.
“Figured I could finish it with you here, since you’re always staring at my hands. I thought you deserved to know why.”
I blushed furiously.
“Oh, that is fun,” he said, pulling a strand of hair from my face. “I fully intend to make that happen again. Consider making Eliza Walsh blush my new hobby.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re deflecting. You feel awkward now.”
“Not with you.” He stared at the bridge and uncapped his pen, creating more lines and following the curves, creating shadows.
I watched him work, and the silence was perfect. It was companionship without expectations to fill the silence with meaningless words. I straddled the log when my butt got numb, careful not to jostle it while he continued his line work.
“What did you mean when you said the pen made it feel less copied and pasted? What was the word? Authentic.”
“There are imperfections, the ink pools and creates the wrong texture, the lines are softer, not as sharp as they should be. You can tell it’s a drawing, and because it’s not perfect, it feels more, I don’t know, human? Real? Not a printed replica. Like the difference between a professional photo and a painted portrait. Both are great, both are art, but it’s usually the less than perfect portrait that captures my eyes.”
I let his words wash over me. I could see it, almost like the sketch was breathing. “How did you know I was staring at your hands?”
“I look at you enough to notice things like that.”
I raised my eyebrows.
