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Even from a distance, it was easy to admire Dylan’s commanding form. Tall and broad-shouldered, with muscular arms that strained against his t-shirt sleeves, he looked like he had just stepped off the cover of a firefighter calendar. His dark hair curled damply against his forehead as rivulets of water ran down the rugged plains of his face. I shook my head in amusement as he theatrically soaped up the truck, the suds soon obscuring the vibrant red paint. That man could make washing a vehicle look like a slow-motion scene in an action movie.
Just as I was appreciating the view, Dylan leaned forward to rinse the hood and accidentally sprayed himself full in the face with the hose. He stumbled back, arms flailing comically as he tried to shut off the water, finally succeeding after a few moments of flustered fumbling. I couldn’t hold back a laugh as I watched him wipe his brow with a bewildered, boyish grin, his usual cavalier charm flickering.
Our interactions since I had moved to Pebble Point eleven months ago had been limited to the occasional friendly wave or nod from our respective yards. Dylan intrigued me - he was charming yet mysterious, a small-town hero who almost seemed to wear his looks and popularity like an ill-fitting suit. My glimpse into his unguarded moment felt strangely intimate, like I had peeked through his casual façade.
I thought back to our first meeting, almost a year ago….
The bell above the grocery store door jangled a welcome as I stepped inside, armed with a list that screamed practicality and restraint. But who was I kidding? I’d end up with a cartfull of whims and comfort food. That’s the Avery Dawson way—never stick to the script.
I maneuvered through the aisles, my thoughts adrift to brushstrokes and canvas, when the universe decided to toss in a plot twist. I rounded the corner and collided with a mountain of muscle wrapped in a faded t-shirt that hugged him like it was painted on. Jars of pasta sauce took flight from my basket, arcing gracefully toward the floor.
“Whoa, careful there!” The deep voice was a velvet rumble, rich with amusement.
My eyes traveled up—way up—to meet a pair of green eyes twinkling amidst laugh lines. It was him. The firefighter neighbor with tousled chestnut hair that looked like it had its wild aspirations. Dylan Summers, if the name stitched across his heart had anything to say about it.
“Nice catch,” I managed, noting how his hands had saved a rogue jar from certain demise.
“Name’s Dylan Summers,” he said, placing the jar back into my basket like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’ve got good reflexes. Occupational hazard.”
I let out a laugh, shaking my head at our grocery aisle calamity. “Avery Dawson. I’ve seen you around, actually.” A beat passed as I considered how to phrase my next words without sounding like I’d been keeping tabs on him. “Just moved in next door.”
Dylan’s grin widened. “Well then, neighbor, welcome to Pebble Point. Where the surf sings and spaghetti sauce flies.”
Our laughter mingled and echoed off the shelves, creating an impromptu soundtrack for shoppers passing by.
“Seems like you’re already making your mark on the place,” he teased, nodding at my basket, which now resembled a modern art piece titled ‘Chaos in Aisle Five’.
“An artist leaves her signature everywhere she goes,” I quipped back, feeling a flicker of warmth bloom within me.
He raised an eyebrow, interest piqued. “An artist, huh? That explains... actually nope, it doesn’t explain anything about this situation.”
The corners of my mouth twitched as I attempted to maintain a semblance of composure amid our scattered groceries. “I specialize in unexpected impacts on everyday life.”
“Is that so?” Dylan mused with an air of mock-seriousness that only made his eyes sparkle more. “In that case, how about I help you make another impact—on your pantry? Seems like you could use a hand.”
We spent the next few minutes salvaging what we could of my shopping list while exchanging playful banter about everything from art to zucchini—a topic Dylan seemed to have unexpectedly potent feelings about.
“Thanks for saving me from pasta sauce catastrophe,” I said as we stepped outside into the afternoon sun.
“Anytime,” Dylan replied with an easy smile. “Guess this means we’ll see each other around more often?”
I nodded, warmth curling in my chest at the thought. “Looks like it.”
I felt myself smiling inanely at recalling the encounter. Then I realized I was still staring at his muscular shoulders as he sponged the suds from his truck. I quickly ducked back behind my canvas, picking up my brush again. As much as I fought it, Dylan Summers occupied more space in my thoughts than I cared to admit. With my gallery exhibition just weeks away, however, I didn’t have time to analyze my interest in my handsome neighbor. I needed to focus on my art, not daydream about chiseled jaws and sparkling green eyes.
***
I was startled at the abrasive beep emanating from my laptop, its demanding tone slicing through the tranquil bubble of my art studio. With a sigh, I reluctantly pulled myself away from the half-finished canvas on my easel. I walked over to the neglected device sitting on my worktable.
The Pebble Point Gallery’s submission deadline reminder glared back at me from the screen, its bold letters and looming date driving anxiety spikes through my scattered focus. In my absorption with painting, I had completely lost track of time, forgetting that the window for submitting my piece was rapidly drawing to a close.
I skimmed through the email, my eyes catching on phrases like “final deadline” and “no exceptions”. Each word seemed to swat at my creativity like an irritated curator, scolding me for losing myself in artistic rapture instead of pragmatic preparation.
The cursor blinked impatiently, in perfect sync with the ticking clock on my studio wall, underscoring the oppressive squeeze of time bearing down on my work. I could almost hear the seconds counting down to the deadline, the sound ricocheting around my mind, upending the tranquility I had sunk into just moments before.
It wasn’t just about meeting a deadline. This submission meant putting my art out into the world, making it vulnerable to judgement and critique. While part of me relished the prospect of finally gaining recognition, the familiar claws of self-doubt still lurked within.
I took a deep breath, rallying my resolve. My art was an extension of my soul, not bound by deadlines or expectations. With a few quick clicks, I submitted my application and a photograph of the canvas. I watched the confirmation page load with mingled excitement and trepidation.
