They had a very intent conversation on their way over, and in an effort to distract myself from how much I also wanted to throw my arms around Griffin’s neck and hug him, I asked, “What do you think they’re talking about?”
“The heat death of the universe and what disease Milo will have when it happens.”
That made me laugh in a way that surprised me, and he grinned at my response, enjoying it. My knees had come up and hit the easel I was using, knocking one of my brushes to the floor.
He reached down and grabbed it before I could, handing it back to me. I made sure that our fingers did not touch because I’d do more than almost flatten my easel if they did.
When I’d put the brush back down he said, “I see you’re still trying to set lures for me by dropping your accessories.”
“Nobody’s trying to trap you, Your Royal Stalkerness.”
Milo and Sophie returned and were going through the different supplies that had been set up at the table nearby. Griffin grabbed a stool and sat next to me. Too close, but I wasn’t going to complain. “I’ll remind you that I was invited here today. By you, if memory serves.”
Fine. He had a point. “I’m just glad that you finally showed up. You’re late.”
“I was practically on time. Fifteen minutes is not late,” he said.
“It is.” I was the kind of person who was compulsively on time. I didn’t like the idea of wasting anybody’s time. Just another reason things could never work between us. We were too different. He was private jets and caviar and I was bologna sandwiches and public transportation. We wouldn’t have anything in common.
But then he leaned in close, and all those resolutions fled. He was so broad and strong and I really did want to wrap myself around him.
“We could have driven over together if you’re concerned about my timeliness.”
Oh. That actually hadn’t occurred to me, although it probably should have, given that we were staying in the same place. I didn’t know how that would work, though. It was bad enough being with him in a room filled with screaming children and bored parents. I couldn’t imagine sitting close to him in a tiny, enclosed space. “Why? Did you have plans to show off your shiny sports car?”
“I do have some beauties back home, but we’re relying on a car service here.”
Ha. I knew he was a car guy. Totally called it. “Sorry, I’ve never cared much about cars.”
“You will when we’re going two hundred kilometers per hour on the Autobahn.”
“Is that a lot?” I asked. “I don’t know anything about fake measuring systems.”
He straightened his shoulders. “The metric system is far more precise . . .” His voice trailed off when he realized I was teasing him. “Very funny. But you would be impressed.”
“The only way your car would impress me is if it was a taco truck. Maybe an ice cream truck.”
His eyes danced, as if he were highly amused.
“I love ice cream!” Sophie announced.
“I thought you were allergic,” I said, my gaze moving over to Milo, who didn’t look the least bit guilty about the list of allergies he’d made up for Sophie.
“If she is, she’d be dead by now with the way she eats it,” Griffin said, as Sophie turned toward Milo to show him something. “So, Diana Parker, what would it take to impress you? Are you saying the royal connection doesn’t work at all in my favor?”
“I’ve had a couple of brushes with a monarchy before. My mom used to date the Used Car King of New Jersey. Oh, and I won the spelling bee in seventh grade. Which technically made me the Queen Bee.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works.”
“You’re not American, how would you know?”
He let out a dramatic, fake sigh. “I can’t believe I don’t possess anything that impresses you.”
I was impressed with his kindness and thoughtfulness and how much he cared about his family. That he was funny and clever and looked like someone had lovingly carved him out of marble and breathed life into him didn’t hurt things, either.
“I’m so sorry that you have to go through life with absolutely nothing in your favor,” I told him.
Griffin smiled at me and then reached for a canvas. He held it up slightly and said, “Look. I painted a mountain covered in snow.”
At that I laughed long and loud, not able to help myself. It was probably the hardest I had laughed in a long, long time. He was confused at first, but that boyish nature of his made it impossible for him not to join in.
When I finally caught my breath again he said, “I appreciate the support, but it wasn’t that funny.”
I lifted my paintbrush and started painting again. “Somebody beat you to that exact punch fifteen minutes ago. Milo said the same thing to me when he picked up a canvas.”
“Just my luck. Upstaged by a five-year-old.” He watched me and I felt surprisingly self-conscious. That wasn’t something that normally happened when I painted. I was able to tune out the entire world and center everything around my paintbrush stroking against the canvas.
“You enjoy this. It makes you happy,” he commented.
I considered his words, but happy didn’t quite cover it. “This guy I used to date asked me once when I felt most like myself.” It had been a hard question to answer at first because I’d spent so much of my life pretending to be someone I wasn’t. “This. This is when I feel the most like me. Like . . . I’ve found my calling. What I’m supposed to be doing with my life.”
Things felt too heavy, too serious, so I added, “Of course the only reason he’d asked me that question was because he wanted me to know that he felt most like himself when he was hooking up with multiple women, so . . .”
“He sounds delightful. What a fun mistake for you.”
“I don’t really make mistakes so much as date them. The last guy I went out with was basically a pile of red flags in a trench coat.”
Griffin nodded, not saying anything for a moment. “How does it make you feel? The painting, not the git you dated.”
“It’s hard to describe. I will feel this urge that doesn’t go away until I paint it. Sometimes I sketch but it’s not the same as this. When I’m painting it’s like I channel all of me into it and I shut the rest of the world out. It’s relaxing, takes away my stress. I feel calmer and happier when I’m painting. There’s even this rush when I’m finished, like an endorphin high.”
“I know other ways to accomplish the same thing,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at me.
“I bet you do.” And again, I had that unfounded but certain knowledge that he’d be really, really good at helping me de-stress.
He grabbed a spare easel and placed his canvas on it. “Sounds like something I should try. I’m always up for relaxing, easing stress, and getting an endorphin hit. What should I do now? Where should I get paints and brushes?”
Had he not noticed the table where Milo and Sophie had grabbed their supplies? I was about to point out where everything was when Betty appeared, swooping in like a giant bird of prey who had been waiting for this very moment. “Hi! I’m Betty, the assistant teacher. Can I help you with anything?”