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"Good girl."
The way her eyes darkened at my praise made me swallow, mouth dry. Saturday couldn’t come soon enough.
Chapter 11
Eve
Iflewthroughmymorning appointments, eager to get to my date with Brady. I'd spent most of Friday evening scrambling to find my snow pants and boots. They'd been buried at the back of my closet, lodged under a bin of art supplies. Seeing those supplies, remembering the life I'd left behind, had made me pause, afraid I was rushing into things with Brady. But I scolded that inner voice into submission, too excited about the prospect of time alone with him to listen to my misgivings.
The bell above Fierce Ink's door rang as I was washing up after my last client, and Brady stepped inside.
Something about his presence filled the space, making him seem larger than he was. He stood in jeans and a navy sweater that molded his chest, looking impossibly handsome as he examined my artwork.
"You're very talented," he murmured as I approached, "These elk practically come alive."
"Thanks," I said, secretly pleased by his approval. "It feels good to pay the bills with something I used to consider a hobby."
"Yeah?" he said, tilting his head. "What was your first career?"
I bit my lip, debating giving Brady this piece of me. Of my past. But if we were going to have a relationship, I had to start opening up. Even I could recognize that bottling up my previous life was a temporary measure. What had been meant as a protective move to let scabs cover my open wounds had become habit. One I needed to break.
I took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.
"I was an art teacher."
"Really?" he leaned back, taking in my dark hair, heavy makeup, and fully inked forearms. "Where at?"
"Your judgment is showing," I whispered, aggressively helpful. "You better tuck that back in."
"Eve, I didn't mean that the way it sounded," he placated, holding up his hands. "I'm just guessing it was on the west side somewhere?"
I quirked my lips in a fleeting smile. "And you'd be right. The teacher dress code is a little more relaxed where I'm from."
"You still haven't said where that is," he probed gently.
I paused, weighing his expression. He looked genuinely contrite for implying that I wouldn't fit in.
"Sammamish," I said, relenting.
"Nice. That district has a good reputation for the arts," he murmured, sounding impressed.
I held back my wince. Their 'reputation' was part of the reason I'd lost my job.
"Mmh," I murmured noncommittally. "Shall we get going?"
Brady rocked back on his heels, hands in his back pockets. "Sure. Do you have a bag with your gear? I thought we'd hit up a spot I know along the way for lunch, then we can change at the park."
"Yep."
I grabbed my backpack and locked up, following Brady out to his SUV, secretly pleased when he held the door for me before popping the back to add my bag to his.
I was curious what Brady would play on our drive. Suit and tie Brady seemed like a classical kind of guy. Or maybe country, given he grew up in Campfire. Pretty sure country music was embedded in the DNA for anyone born local.
"This okay?" he asked, as acoustic rock blared from the speakers.
Nodding, I hummed along to a song I recognized. "Absolutely."
We chatted easily on the drive, the landscape changing from Campfire’s version of city to country roads in a flash. We stopped for a quick bite at a small diner before entering the national park. Brady found a spot in the busy parking lot, and I slipped from the front seat, stomping my feet to stay warm in the frigid air. Brady handed me my bag, and we trudged to the heated restrooms. I tugged on my snow gear and joined him outside.
