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He stacked the last items into a duffle bag and hoisted it over his broad shoulder. I opened the door for him as we headed out to his truck.
“Honestly, though, these safety demos are the most exciting part of the job some weeks,” he admitted, loading the gear into the back of the pickup. “Pebble Point’s a pretty quiet town, fire-wise. Not that I want disaster to strike just to break up the routine, but it gets mundane, running the same equipment checks and drills day after day.”
I leaned against the truck bed, peering up at him. “I can imagine. Your life must feel pretty uneventful compared to your extracurricular activities.”
I raised my eyebrows suggestively. Dylan laughed.
“Oh yes, my life has gotten much more thrilling lately, thanks to a certain artist next door.”
He moved closer, hands resting on the truck bed on either side of me. I could smell the subtle, masculine scent of his soap mixed with smoke.
“ I should be thanking you,” he murmured, voice low. “I don’t know how I survived before with such a lack of excitement.”
My heart skipped a beat at his sudden closeness. For a moment we stayed frozen, faces just inches apart. Then Dylan broke the tension, stepping back with an affable grin.
“But really, I owe you for coming today. It means a lot that you’re interested in what I do. And the kids loved your sketch, by the way.”
I released the breath I’d been holding, still flustered. “Oh, thanks. I just captured the moment. No big deal.”
We exchanged a lingering smile. As we said our goodbyes, I felt a new sense of anticipation for whatever “excitement” he had planned next. But underneath the flirtatious banter, I realized Dylan took his job incredibly seriously. He might play the fun-loving charmer, but his dedication to the community was clear.
I watched the truck pull away, Dylan waving casually through the window. Little did I know, in just twenty-four hours, I’d be fearing for his life, confronted with the dangerous realities that lay beneath his lighthearted persona. But for now, the warm Pebble Point sun shone down as I replayed our conversation in my mind, savoring the sweet tension of our undeniable connection.
Chapter 10
I stepped out into the fresh morning air, inhaling deeply and savoring the salty scent of the nearby ocean. The early rays of dawn were just peeking over the horizon, bathing Pebble Point in a warm, golden glow. It was my favorite time of day, when the town was still sleepy and I could enjoy some quiet solitude before the hustle and bustle of the day began.
With a travel mug of steaming coffee in hand, I headed down the street towards Brushworks, the local art supply store. It was a quaint little shop, tucked away on a side street, but it had everything an artist could need. I loved wandering the aisles, getting inspired by all the blank canvases, tubes of paint, and bundles of brushes, just waiting to bring an artistic vision to life.
The faint tinkle of a bell announced my arrival as I stepped inside, enjoying the rich scents of oil paint, turpentine, and wood. It was like an artist’s perfume, instantly putting me at ease.
I meandered through the aisles, running my fingers lightly over the canvas textures, admiring the vibrant pigments packedinto tubes of paint. My mind was already racing with ideas for new pieces.
As I turned down an aisle stocked with brushes, I overheard voices from the next row. Two women, from the sounds of it. Their tones were hushed, but I could make out what they were saying.
“...can’t believe they accepted that Avery Dawson painting for the exhibition. It’s so amateurish.”
I froze, my fingers clenching around a brush I’d been examining. They had to be talking about ‘Whispers of Dusk’.
My heart sank. I leaned in, shamelessly eavesdropping now. That painting was incredibly personal to me. I’d poured my soul into the misty, dusk-lit cliffs and roiling ocean below. Every brushstroke held meaning. And now, to hear it dismissed so casually, labeled “amateurish,” felt like a dagger to my artistic pride.
Who were these women? Did they have any idea how much work went into that piece? I took a steadying breath, trying to still the hurt and doubt now creeping into my excited confidence in having a painting accepted. No, I resolved; I wouldn’t let the careless words of strangers unravel my accomplishment. I knew the truth of the many long hours, the late nights, and the countless artistic choices that led to the finished piece. I had to cling to that knowledge, to my vision, and to keep faith in my abilities. This was just one step on the longer journey.
The other woman clicked her tongue in agreement. “No depth or emotion at all. The colors are all wrong for a sunset scene, too. I have no idea how it was selected.”
Their critiques landed like blows, each chipping away at the confidence I’d built over the past weeks. How could they dismiss my work so easily, without even knowing me?
I wanted to march over and defend myself, to make them understand the hours of effort I’d poured into that canvas. Thepaint may have dried, but the emotions behind each brushstroke were still fresh.
Instead, I took a deep, steadying breath and slowly placed the brush back on the shelf. Their uninformed opinions didn’t matter, I told myself. The only thing that mattered was believing in my abilities as an artist.
Still, as I walked up to the register to pay for my supplies, their critiques echoed in my mind. I knew art was subjective, but part of me worried they were right. Maybe my skills just weren’t good enough yet.
I set my art supplies on the counter, trying to push aside the doubts now swirling in my mind. The cashier, an older woman with kind eyes and silver hair pulled back in a bun, began ringing up my items.
“Getting ready for the art festival? I’ve given your booth a prime position right near the main entrance,” she asked with a smile, making small talk as she worked.
I managed a weak smile in return. “Oh, that’s lovely, thank you. I…just hope my paintings are good enough…”
