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“Is that even English?”
“Yes. I’m quite fluid considering it’s my native language.” Yeah, I’m just being a smartass at this point. I’ll admit it. But this woman is captivating when she gets going. Truth be told, her anger is turning me on a bit, which is really weird. Typically, a woman set to “royally pissed off” isn’t my kink.
I know what’s coming next. Here’s the part where she scoffs at me and says something akin to, “I should’ve known,” or “I could’ve guessed.” Only she doesn’t say that at all.
“No matter where you come from, there’s such a thing as manners. You should try using them.”
“That’s pretty rich coming from the person who bumped into me.”
Her features change through various emotions like a traffic light. There’s still indignation there, sure. But there’s also confusion and regret, though only a tiny sliver of that last one. Still, she quits narrowing her gaze and clenching her jaw. A mask washes over her face as she quirks the corners of her mouth up, but just barely. I can tell this is requiring a great effort from her.
“You’re right. I apologize for unintentionally entering your personal space.”
“You’re forgiven.” I mean it, but she goes on.
“But if you can’t handle the basic courtesy expected by small Southern towns, maybe you should consider moving elsewhere.”
If she thinks I’m backing down from that, she’s got another think coming.
“I see no reason for that. The people around here adore me. I’m their resident artist.”
“What’s that you’re working on?” She’s regarding the piece behind me as if it came from some four-year-old’s coloring book.
“This is one of my most recent displays. I call it ‘Four Seasons in a Small Town.’ It’s a project of abstracts depicting spring, summer, fall, and winter here in Oak Valley. I based it exclusively on the feel of each time of year through hues and textures.”
“That’s why it’s so…” She waves her hands and squints her eyes as if having to work to come up with something nice to say. “Covered in taupe?”
“Taupe is close, I suppose. The actual shades I used were buff linen, ivory, vanilla, and ochre.”
“Ochre?”
“Yeah, it’s a kind of dark, brownish yellow.”
She scrutinizes my canvas. “This is supposed to be about a certain season? Which one?”
“You can’t tell?”
“It’s not bright enough for summer, too bland to be fall.”
“Ah,” I lift an index finger, “but the end of autumn going into winter is all about this combination of colors. It’s in people’s lawns and landscaping. It’s part of the outlying fields as well as some trees and shrubs. To me, that screams late fall after all the trees have dropped their leaves.”
She tips her head from side to side as if contemplating this, and, almost reluctantly, she gives a mini shrug and a subtle bob of her head. I take this as a win.
“I’m Sam Baldwin, and this is my gallery,” I’m compelled to tell her. “This group of paintings is only a single aspect of my work. I’m hosting a grand opening show for my newest never-before-seen projects here this Saturday, along with a few selections from other Georgian artists. You should come, Ms.—”
“Sizemore. Amanda Sizemore.”
“Amanda.” Her name rolls off my tongue. It suits her. “I’d like to see you there. Come find me if you decide to stop by.”
She takes a pace back, seems to recognize that this would be a bad idea, and pivots around.
“Maybe I will.”
Three
Amanda
I maintain a rapid pace as I head toward The Creative Gallery. I try to slow down a bit, but I’m reluctantly looking forward to seeing Sam again. In spite of his abrasive personality, I can’t ignore the attraction I feel. And the fact that he’s hot as sin isn’t a minor thing at this point.
