“Anthony, turn that shit off.” I reach over and swipe the volume on his phone. “You have terrible taste in music.”

Anthony stands in front of an open tool locker, picking out what he needs to pull the dent from my fender. He pauses what he’s doing just long enough to flip me the bird, then goes back to choosing tools.

“Don’t act bad because you think you beat me yesterday.” His voice bounces off the metal and floats back to me. I’m sitting on a stool beside my truck. I’d offer to help, but I know nothing about cars.

“I did beat you yesterday,” I argue, watching him scratch the back of his head. He reaches in for one more item, then pulls away and nudges the closet door closed with a booted foot.

“Next time will be different,” he warns, dumping the contents of his arms on a bench. I wince at the loud sounds of metal clanging together. He picks through it, grabbing what he needs first, and points the tool at me. “Next week you might not have a reason to spar.”

“Something tells me I will,” I grumble, shifting on the uncomfortable wooden stool.

“Is Brynn really that bad?”

“Yes.”

“I think you’re just that affected by her.”

I shoot him my death glare and he holds up his hands. “Hey, man, I’m just calling it how I see it. You haven’t been this upset by someone since you know who.”

I look off to the other end of the shop, where one guy has the hood of a car lifted and he’s bent over the engine. Another guy rolls around under a truck.

“Don’t be pissed,” Anthony says, right before he plugs in a machine and applies it to the dent.

“I’m not.” Not at Anthony, anyway, for pointing out what I already know. I’m pissed off at myself for even caring about Brynn in the first place. She has given me no indication I should be developing feelings for her. I’ve been alone for a while, and I miss being with a woman. In walks a gorgeous, mysterious girl and I want her. It’s pretty simple to understand, almost like a fucking equation.

Anthony looks at me from his seat in front of my truck. “Go get lunch for us. I’m hungry, and you’re paying.” It’s a fair trade, considering he’s not charging me to do this work.

Reaching into his pocket, he tosses me his keys. I leave the shop and find his car in the small parking lot. Anthony is shorter than me, so I have to adjust the seat and mirrors. That should make him really happy.

I’m craving Chinese food. When I get there, I place an order for takeout and sit on a red leather chair near the hostess stand, waiting. The big front window looks out onto an intersection. While I wait, I alternate between reading an article on my phone and looking out the window. The fourth time I look up, I see light blonde hair across the street. Shoulder-length. A tank top I’ve never seen before hugs every inch of her chest, but it’s too far away to read the lettering on the front. As I watch, Brynn chooses a table and smiles at a server when they come over. She places an order without taking the menu being held out to her. When the server walks away, Brynn pulls a book from her purse and opens it.

“How much longer?” I ask the hostess, who I’m pretty sure is also the owner.

“Ten minutes,” she answers, wiping down a menu and inserting it into the cubby connected to the side of the hostess stand.

“I’ll be back,” I mutter, getting up and pushing open the door. The little bell rings behind me.

The Walk sign says Do Not Walk, but there aren’t any cars coming, so I cross anyway and jump up the curb onto the sidewalk. Brynn’s back is to me. She tucks a stray hair behind her ear and turns a page.

“Hi,” I say, touching her shoulder.

She shrieks. Snatches my hand. Her nails dig in, and hot pain flashes across the top of my hand. She looks up at me and lets go.

“Fucking hell,” she whispers angrily. Fury fills her eyes, her jaw flexes.

But I saw it.

Before she was angry, she was terrified.

“Brynn, I… Fuck, I’m sorry.” Cautiously, I step around the table and grip the top of the blue wrought-iron chair.

Her eyes are on the table, so I dip my head, trying to get her to lift her gaze. She won’t. Instead, she places an open palm on her chest and takes deep, even breaths. She finishes, and only then does she meet my eyes.

“I’m sorry, Connor. I overreacted.” She looks shaky, but I think she means it.

Reaching down, I pick up the book she dropped when she grabbed me, and hand it back to her. She stows it in her bag without a word. The server comes back, drops off her tea and sandwich, and leaves again. Brynn pours cream into the hot tea, and one sugar. I’ve never seen anybody have tea like that.

Reaching for the spoon, she stirs the swirling brown and white mixture. “I went to London when I was fourteen.” A faint smile dusts her lips. The spoon clinks the side of the cup. “My mother is impetuous, and my father is a sucker for her whims. So, off to London we went. I saw a woman having tea this way, and I tried it too.” She lifts the cup to her lips. “Since then, I’ve never had it any other way.”

“Can I sit?” I ask, hoping she won’t shut me down.

She motions to the empty seat, and I restrain myself from leaping into it. It’d be great if I could show some self-control around this girl.

“What are you up to? Just out and about on a Sunday afternoon?” Brynn takes a bite of her sandwich and waits for my answer.

“Grabbing lunch. My best friend, Anthony, is fixing my fender. He’s not charging me,” I add when I see her concerned look. “Save your pennies. Honestly.”

She evaluates me with those penetrating eyes, then I guess she decides I’m telling the truth, because she sits back and takes another bite.

“Did you make sour beef yesterday?”

She nods.

“And? How was it?”

“Not as bad as you’d think from the name of it. Actually, it was pretty good.” She smiles, a grin that reaches her ears.

She’s stunning. I’ve never seen anybody like her.

“Walt loved it. He said it tasted just like his wife used to make it.”

I bristle at the mention of Walt but keep my mouth shut. I don’t want a repeat of yesterday.

“So, you have a nice time with Walt?” I keep my tone light.

Brynn knows what I’m doing. She smirks. “Yes. He only threatened me once. Wait, no.” She touches the pad of her pointer finger to her chin and pretends to think. “Two times. Yes, two times. I almost forgot that second one.”

My eyes narrow, and she snickers.

A waving hand across the street gets my attention. It’s the woman from the Chinese food place. She’s holding our lunch in one hand and pointing to it with the other.

I get up from the table and tell Brynn I have to go.

“I’ll pick you up in the morning. Unless you’ve suddenly obtained a car.”

Her eyes flicker down to her lap. “Uh, no.”

Lucky me.

“Brynn, I’m curious about something.”

She shakes her head, exasperated. “What?” Her attitude is back.

I nod to her chest. “I want to know what your shirt says, but the lettering is kind of at an awkward position.”

She looks down at herself. “It says ‘Sorry I’m late, I didn’t want to come.’”

“Very funny.” I’m trying to look anywhere but at her chest. It’s a feat of gargantuan proportions. Her breasts are big, full, and round, and I’m trying desperately to forget the cleavage she has when she leans forward.

“Connor?”

I swing my gaze to her. “Yeah.”

She points across the street. “Your lunch?”

“Right.” I step away. “Tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning,” she echoes.

This time the crosswalk has a Walk sign, so I hurry across it and into the restaurant.

“Sorry, sorry,” I say to the woman up front. She hands me a plastic bag filled with take-out boxes and knotted at the top.

“It’s okay. Food can wait when there’s a pretty girl.” She winks at me.

I take the bag and hand her my credit card, grunting my agreement. I can’t make small talk right now. I keep seeing Brynn’s eyes when she was scared, and I’m trying to commit it to memory. The storm was back. Desire to paint slams into me.

It has been months since I felt this rush, this all-consuming need to be home and in my living room, paintbrush in hand.

Moments like this must be seized.

Anthony will just have to deal with his hunger for a little while longer.

Yes.

This is what I’ve been waiting months for.

Just when I thought my talent had dried up, leaving my soul desiccated, inspiration struck.

Taking a step back from my canvas, I study my work. It’s not finished, but it’s close. Close enough to make me want to run through the streets wearing these paint-spotted jeans. No shirt, no shoes, just as I am now.

Someone knocks on my front door. I answer it, knowing damn well who it’s going to be.

Anthony strides in, flashing me an irritated look. He tosses my keys at my chest. “Hey, asshat. Good thing I had a banana stashed behind the counter in the shop.”

I tuck my keys into my pocket and ignore him. Taking a step back, I point at the painting.

He walks to the canvas and stands in front of it. Anthony whistles, low and slow. “You got your mojo back.”

I stand beside him and take it in. “For an afternoon, at least.”

He steps closer, running his finger in an arc just an inch off the canvas. “You should call it Eye of the Storm.”

He’s right. I’ve painted an eye, and within the eye are waves and dark sky. The skies are shades of gray, from medium to dark, and the waves are a mix of color. Lines of yellow, light blue, and forest green run alongside the blue of her eyes. Brynn blue.

“What are you going to do with the center?” Anthony looks at me.

I go to the kitchen and grab two beers. Handing him one, I confess I have no clue yet. The idea came to me only eighty percent finished. The problem is that I don’t know what the center is. What is the iris? What is Brynn’s fear? I have an urge to paint it white, or maybe outline it in black. The painting represents Brynn’s fear, but when I picture it, I keep seeing the innocent color, the absence of dark.

Anthony points to the painting with the mouth of his bottle. “Did Brynn inspire this?”

“Yeah. That’s what her eyes look like when she’s angry.” And fearful. But I don’t want to say that. Fear seems personal.

“How do you already know what she looks like when she’s angry?”

“What does that mean?”

“Just seems to me that anger isn’t something that comes out this early. Aren’t people on their best behavior right after they meet? And even more when that person is an employee?” He shrugs. “I don’t know, man. She’s either nuts, or you hooked her.”

“She’s not a fish, dipshit.”

“Obviously, but you get my point, right?”

What Anthony is trying to say is something I can’t wrap my mind around. There’s no way Brynn likes me. When I’m not probing her for information, I’m insulting her new friend, or scaring the daylights out of her. I’m sure she’s counting the minutes until I provoke and exasperate her again.

“I understand your words, Anthony, I just don’t agree with them.”

“Alright, fine. You say she doesn’t like you. You say she has an attitude that’s mostly aimed at you—”

“She befriended Walt Jenkins! Of all people.” I blow out a disgusted breath. “Can you imagine how hard that must’ve been?”

“Pretty fucking hard, all things considered, but here’s what that tells me: She’s capable of kindness, just not toward you. And why not?”

I open my mouth to respond, but Anthony continues. I don’t think he wanted an answer in the first place. “She’s not nice to you because you frighten her. Not like Boo!”—he holds up his hands and yells the word—“but more like you agitate her. She doesn’t like what she feels when she’s around you, and it makes her mad at herself.” Anthony taps my chest in time with his next words. “Not. At. You.”

“Do you have any more of what you’ve been smoking? It must be pretty good.”

“Actually, yes, I do have some good shit, but I’m not sharing.” Anthony tips up his beer and drains it, then hands me the empty bottle. “Here’s what you’re going to do. Tomorrow, when you spend the entire day working around her, read her body language. Does she turn toward you? Does she lean in when you talk? Touch her once, in a non-sexual way, and watch how she reacts.”

Anthony grabs his keys from the coffee table, stuffs them into the pocket of his jeans, and walks to the kitchen. “You better not have eaten all that food you went out for,” he says on his way in.

The sounds of a refrigerator door opening and closing reach me from the kitchen. A cabinet slamming. Plates moving around, then finally the dull, clunky sound of a microwave door shutting.

I sit back on the arm of the couch and look at the painting. Anthony thinks I should spend more time watching Brynn’s non-verbal cues. This whole time I’ve been trying to get her to be more verbal, but maybe she doesn’t communicate that way. All my questions, direct and indirect, the thinly veiled probes for information met with icy responses, may have been for nothing. I wonder if she’s been talking all along?

Light pink.

I sit up quickly and hurry to the shelf where I store all the paint.

Brynn’s iris is a soft, sweet, innocent light pink.