Once we order our food, two different gourmet pizzas to share—a vegetarian pizza and a meat lovers, the best of both worlds—we move the conversation to other things. I feel bad talking about my job so much and don’t really want the date to be all about me. Nothing ruins the chances of a second date more than being self-centered.

“How long have you been teaching?” I ask her.

“Since I graduated, so four years now.”

“What made you become a teacher instead of an artist?” I realize that might sound judgmental or imply she’s not a good enough artist to have made it in that world. “I mean, I know it’s incredibly difficult to be an artist of any kind. The work they do is phenomenal, but most people aren’t cultured enough to fully grasp it.” God, I’m rambling.

She smiles. “Relax, Alex. I love teaching, and it’s actually what I wanted to do. Painting has always been a part of who I am. I don’t think of it as a career, though. It’s just...”

“You,” I say, understanding exactly what she means.

“Yeah.” She cocks her head at me. “For someone who claims he’s never been an art lover, you certainly understand the artist mindset. How is that?”

I’m not sure why she keeps turning the conversation back on me. Is she one of those people who isn’t comfortable talking about herself?

“Maybe I’m an artist with no talent,” I say with a smirk.

“I’m not sure that’s a thing,” she says, laughing in the most adorable way. Her foot brushes against mine under the table.

“Okay, maybe I was an artist in a previous life then.”

“You believe in that?” she asks.

I shake my head. “No, I’m not even sure why I said that. You must make me nervous.” I smile to show that while it might be true, I’m okay with it.

“I’ll admit you make me nervous, too.”

“Is that why you keep directing the conversation back to me?” I ask.

“I suppose.” She blushes—or maybe all the sangria we drank is making her cheeks rosy. Her phone chimes, and she retrieves it from her purse. “Oh, wow. I didn’t realize we’ve been here for hours.”

“Really?” I glance at my watch. 6:30. “We have.”

“I should probably get home. I have projects to grade.”

I flag down the waiter for our check. Whitney pulls out her wallet, but I shake my head. “I invited you. My treat,” I say, counting out cash for the bill and tip. “Besides, you gave me my only lead on this story.”

She stands up, brushing her hair over her shoulder. “You don’t even know if it is a lead yet. I could be wrong about the signature.”

We head back to my car, and I open the door for her. “What do you think the artist is trying to say with these murals?”

She pauses, biting her lower lip in consideration. “I think she wants to show the world that art mimics life. But more so that we need art in our lives.” She gets in the car, and her gaze falls to her lap.

I shut the door and consider her words when I walk around to get in. She referred to the artist as “she,” which means she’s assuming a woman painted the murals. Why? I get in and start the engine. “I guess it’s a good thing we have teachers like you helping to shape young artists,” I say, pulling out into the crowded street.

“At least for a little while longer,” she says, her voice full of sadness.

“What do you mean?” I ask, glancing at her briefly before returning my eyes to the road.

“The school board is most likely going to cut the art program.”

She’ll lose her job if that happens. Is that why she’s so interested in this story?

“I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything you can do?” I ask.

“I’m working on something. I’m just not sure if it’ll be enough.”

“If it helps, I’ll sign a petition or come to the next school board meeting to speak out against this. I can come in an official newspaper capacity.”

She turns toward me and smiles. “You’re sweet, Alex. And you’re already helping by shedding some light on these murals. People are talking about art. That’s good.”

She’s right. The murals did come at the perfect time. They could sway people to try to convince the school board not to cut the art program. My mind starts spinning, replaying all Whitney has told me this evening. Is it possible...? I pull into the school parking lot and drive around to the back where Whitney’s car is. I park next to hers but don’t cut the engine.

“Thank you for dinner and for inviting me to check out the mural with you,” she says.

“How did you manage to spot the S on the runner’s top?” I ask her, trying to piece together the events of the week with what she just told me about the art program.

Her eyes widen slightly. “I don’t know. I guess I was standing in the right place.”

She’d moved to where the runner was. I remember. The only way she would have known the S was there as if she was the one who put it there.

“You said you have something in mind to hopefully stop the school board from cutting the art program,” I say. “What is it? I’d love to help.”

“You already are,” she says, her hand on the door handle. “I think your pieces on the murals are bringing attention to the arts. Just keep writing them. The rest is up to the community.”

Her answer doesn’t lesson my suspicion any. “When’s the next school board meeting?” I ask. “I’d love to go.”

“Next Tuesday night.” Her voice is full of disappointment, most likely because she fears that’s the day she’ll lose her job. Would they really put the change into effect immediately like that? I doubt it would take place until the following school year. That could mean she’s so worried because she really did paint the murals and thinks she’s going to get caught.

“Good night, Alex. Thank you again for dinner.” She opens the car door before I can even attempt to kiss her good night. She closes the door and smiles at me through the window before getting into her car.

I watch her pull out of the lot. Her demeanor can only mean one thing. She’s the artist I’m trying to find. She wants me to cover the story because she’s trying to use the murals to keep the art program from getting cut. I consider what I said this evening about another mural showing up soon to keep the spotlight on the story. Would she really do it? Paint another mural already? She’s running out of time before Tuesday. I shut off my lights so she won’t see me and follow her car.

I’m not sure if I’m going to try to stop her to keep her from getting fined or worse—put in jail for defacing public property. I understand why she’s doing it. And really, her work has helped two businesses, so she’s not harming anyone. But will the cops see it that way?

She heads back downtown, like I knew she would. This time she pulls up to Amor Amici. I swear it’s like she wants me to catch her. She must, returning to the exact place we had dinner. I keep going and stop at the Dunkin’ Donuts. I pull into the drive-through and order two hot chocolates. I’m giving Whitney time to get set up and do what she’s determined to do. She’s a grown woman, and I’m not going to try to stop her. She barely knows me, so I doubt she’d listen to me anyway. I pay and drive around, turning my lights back on so I don’t arouse suspicion. I park at the library, intent on walking the rest of the way.

Everything downtown closes early on weekdays. All the bars are located off this main drag, so that’s where the nightlife is, too. It makes this the perfect location for Whitney to work without being seen. I lock my car and start toward the restaurant, both cups of hot chocolate in my hands. I sip mine to ward off the chilly night air. By the time I reach Amor Amici, Whitney is set up and painting an Italian chef with a handlebar mustache on the side of the building where the outdoor seating is located. There’s an awning, providing her with a little cover from any cars that might drive by. I hang back in the shadows so she doesn’t see me. It’s when she paints a flourishing S on the chef’s apron that I move closer.

“So you do sign your work,” I say.

She jumps and nearly drops the paintbrush in her hand. Placing a hand to her heart, she says, “Alex, what are you doing here?”

“It’s cold tonight. I thought you might like some hot chocolate.” I hold one cup out to her.

She narrows her brow at me but takes the cup. “How did you know I’d be here? Did you follow me?”

I nod. “Isn’t that what you wanted?” I start piecing this all together. “You flirted with me that day in the parking lot. Was that because I told you who I was, that I wrote the piece on the mural at Bonnie’s Boutique?” Did she use me? Was it all an act? I’m starting to think it’s good that I didn’t get the chance to try to kiss her good night. She most likely would have shot me down.

She lowers her head. “Honestly and off the record, at first. I won’t deny I’m attracted to you or that I’ve loved spending time with you. I am and I have.” She steps closer, keeping her voice low. “But yes, I needed your help.”

“Then why didn’t you just tell me? I could have kept you as an anonymous source if you didn’t want to come forth publicly.”

She cocks her head. “Would you really have lied about knowing the identity of the person who painted the murals? I mean, I haven’t known you for long, but I get the impression you don’t like to lie. You’re a reporter. You seek out the truth for a living.”

She’s not wrong. David would have asked me who the artist was, and if I didn’t tell him, I might have lost my job. Damn it. What the hell am I going to do now?

“Whitney, I don’t know what to do here. If you paint another mural, I’m going to have to write another story, and you’re right. Things are different now that I know you’re the artist.”

She nods. “It’s fine. I knew the risks when I started this. Can I just ask for one favor?”

God, with the way she’s looking at me, I’d probably grant her anything right now.

“Would you let me finish this last mural? I have to make sure I make enough of an impact on this city before I turn myself in.”

I don’t want to be responsible for her losing her job. Even if she knew the consequences going into this, I can’t be the one who forces her to go to the police. I reach my hand toward her. “Can I see that paintbrush?”

Her brow furrows. “Why? Alex, what are you up to?”

I give a small laugh. “You barely know me, yet you can tell I have a plan.”

She nods as she hands me the paintbrush.

I walk over to the chef she’s working on and retrace one of her brush strokes. “There,” I say, turning back to her. “Now I’m guilty, too.”

Her eyes widen, and she takes the brush back. “Why would you do that? You don’t even know me.”

We’re only about two feet apart, and I place my hands on her arms. “Whitney, I know you care more about the art program than your own career. I know Mrs. Hershel thinks the world of you. I know you’ve helped two businesses get more clients. To be honest, I’m having a really difficult time finding the wrong in any of this. When I look at you, I don’t see a vandal. I see a woman who believes so strongly in something that she wants to open other people’s eyes about it. I see determination and love.” Even in the dim lighting I see the rosy color that creeps across her cheeks. “I see a woman who made me leave work early in the hopes of getting to take her out to dinner.”

She tucks her hair behind her ear, and the paintbrush grazes her cheek, leaving a white splotch under her eye.

“Here,” I say. “Let me get that for you.” I take the sleeve of my jacket and gently wipe the paint. I’m about to step away when her hand grips my elbow. The look in her eyes is unmistakable. I was wrong before. She wouldn’t have shot me down. I dip my head slowly, in case she’s caught up in the moment and the things I just said. She meets me halfway, rising up on her toes. Her lips are soft against mine. I’m expecting the kiss to be brief, but she grabs my waist and gently tugs me closer. Her lips part, inviting me in. It’s not an invitation I plan to turn down. My tongue finds hers, and the dance they do is so perfectly in tune, as if this is our hundredth kiss instead of our first.

I have to remind myself that not only are we in a public place, but we’re doing something illegal. I don’t really want to get to know Whitney better in jail, so I break the kiss and stare into her eyes. She smiles and bites her lower lip, which only makes me want to kiss her again.

“What do you want to do?” I ask her. I’m not going to turn her in, but I should leave if she intends to finish this mural.

“I have to do this, Alex. You should go.” She presses her hand against my chest. “I don’t want you getting in trouble because of me.”

“Okay. Then I was never here, and I have no idea who the mysterious mural painter is.”

She gapes at me for a moment before pressing her lips to mine again. “Thank you,” she says before shooing me away.

I smile on the way back to my car. Not only am I covering a great story, but I met a wonderful woman. A woman who seems as interested in me as I am in her. And one whose lips taste sweeter than my hot chocolate. One who I’m willing to lie for and apparently risk my own job for.