Maybe I’d have more interest in browsing later. For now, I was shopped out.
On my way back to the bed and breakfast, when I was shoulder to shoulder on the sidewalk with the midday shopping crowd—and yes, apparently the holiday festival was still in progress, judging from the amount of signs—I caught sight of a small art shop tucked beside the library. It was obviously new, and when I stepped inside, there were still dropcloths all over the floor.
“We aren’t open yet, sorry,” a woman on a stepladder called out.
Though it wasn’t in my nature to be rude, I’d noticed two things I needed. I grabbed the sketch pad off an easel and plucked a hunk of charcoal out of a cup. “I have to have these. Name your price.”
Her laugh was as airy as the windchimes tinkling from the eaves. “Well, seeing as you’re my very first sale and I intend on framing that dollar, I won’t overcharge you. But I’m really not open yet. I don’t even have the register online.”
“How’s fifty bucks for you to frame?” I was already prying out my wallet. If I’d ever needed the supplies more, I couldn’t remember it. “Extra because you’re really helping me out of a jam with these.”
“Sold.” She held out a hand, and I gave her the money. Rings winked on every finger. “You’re not spending your last dollar for those, are you? Here, let me get you a bag.”
“No, I have a few left. Thanks.” I let her take my purchases and put them in a paper sack before returning them to me. Then I slid my items into the messenger bag I’d grabbed from my car before turning it over to Dare.
True to her word, she slipped my money into a small frame she had waiting before hanging it on a hook on the wall. “There. Every Line A Story is officially in business. Thank you. I hope you’ll come back when we’re open for real in a couple weeks.” She turned back and dusted her hand on her hip. “I’m Colette.”
“Callum. Nice to meet you. Afraid I don’t live here or travel this way, but I wish you all the luck.”
She smiled, her long brown hair ponytail slipping over her shoulder. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
Inwardly, I sighed. If only I’d met her the day before. Now my head was full of possibly pink hair and unforgettably soft lips.
I nodded to her and went back outside, taking a bracing breath of the crisp, water-tinged air. At least the snow had stopped, although the slate gray sky warned it wouldn’t be long.
We’d just see how long I would get.
I crossed the street and got lucky with a bench near the lake, just beyond the bulk of the festival mayhem. Even on the gloomy day, the small lapping waves of the lake glittered.
A giant snow globe had been set up near the shore. Fake snow whirled inside as children leaped around like little maniacs. I hoped the structure didn’t take flight in the wind, but it seemed securely tethered.
If not, Sheriff Unfriendly would have something else to grouse about.
Christmas carols played brightly from unseen speakers, and the scent of real roasted chestnuts carried on the air. I drew in deeply and considered making a lunch of them—after I worked on my sketch.
I dug out my newest acquisitions from my bag and flipped to the first page in the pad. I skated my fingertips over the fine weave of the paper. It wasn’t super high-end, but there was nothing like the promise of a fresh start.
Perhaps that was what Crescent Cove could be for me too. Even if I hadn’t realized I was searching for one.
I started sketching the snow globe first to warm up my fingers, stiff from the cold. I rarely remembered to put on the gloves, which was a problem when stilted movements would affect the piece.
The shape took form quickly. I added in the snow now playfully meandering from the thick clouds above, an interesting juxtaposition to the world of faux flakes inside the dome. Kids tumbled over one another while their smiling parents lingered outside, talking and sipping cups of coffee or cocoa. I wondered if they’d laced them with something stronger. If those screeching children were mine, I’d probably imbibe before mid-afternoon too.
I swallowed over the sudden lump in my throat, moving my fingers faster to compensate. Coming from a large family myself, I’d never had the great desire to have kids. I’d grown up with the triplets climbing over everything that was nailed down—and some stuff that wasn’t—and the idea of willingly filling my own quiet home with so much noise and activity was…
Not so bad. Not anymore.
I sat back on the bench and finished one of the kids’ faces. I couldn’t see that clearly from this distance, but I imagined her cheeks were flushed, and her long braids were bobbing over her shoulders.
Braids. Like my pink-haired mystery woman who might never be anything but that.
Quickly, I flipped the page and moved the charcoal in rapid strokes. I was guessing at her shape, especially in this stage of undress. In any stage of undress. Bulky winter coats could hide a lot. I didn’t even know her true hair color or its texture.
But I had a good imagination.
She came together even faster than the snow globe. All sinuous lines and curves. A hint of fullness here and there. Rounded and then slight. Long hair trailing down her back like water, free and flowing. And that scarf still wrapped around my neck protecting her modesty—just barely. The soft material cupped her and teased at what she might reveal if the urge struck. Those tantalizing bits of fringe trailed along her inner thigh, caressing her flesh like a lover.
Or like a man driven to sketch her, since he might never see her again.
I spent the most time on her lips. Their perfect bow, the divot on the top one, the slight dent in the bottom. So plump and glossy and bitable. This was the only part of her I felt like I knew without question, though I wouldn’t mind a lifetime to learn about the rest.
“Oh my God. What are you doing? Are you—is that—oh my God.” At my side, a woman covered her mouth.
I blocked my sketch pad with my arm. This little town was driving me nuts. “It’s my girlfriend,” I said quickly. A lie, sure, but not entirely.
Fine, yes, entirely. One kiss—no matter how hot—did not a relationship make.
“Where is she?” the woman asked accusingly, glancing around. We were surrounded by some adults, but children were definitely more prevalent.
“I’m going to meet her now.” I flipped the snow globe sketch over to cover the scarf one, although in retrospect, that might not have helped considering the subject of that one was kids. Which she noticed with a narrow-eyed stare the sheriff would have applauded. “I’m an artist,” I muttered. “I’ve sold pieces. I have an agent.”
“You aren’t from Crescent Cove.” Her statement whipped my skin with as much force as the snow-laden breeze. “Are you here for the festival?”
“I live in Syracuse.” Defense and outrage laced my voice as I stood and shoved my supplies into my messenger bag. “I’m a professor, dammit.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She crossed her arms. “I’m friends with the sheriff, you know. So, you might just want to find your girlfriend,” I half-expected her to do air quotes, “and move along.”
Clearly, there was no point trying to explain myself. The woman in my sketch was quite obviously a fully grown woman, but maybe that also made me a pervert. The suggestion was there.