“I’m opening the doors in five minutes.” Jaxon pops his head in to deliver the message, then leaves before I can check him out again. He’s wearing a red beanie tonight. It pairs well with his worn denim jeans and cream v-neck shirt, plaid removed. Not that he probably put any thought into it. Jaxon was always a “toss on whatever is clean” kind of guy.

Claire moves to the doorway between Creek Café and Creek Canvas, spreading her arms in a flourish. “Welcome to Canvas and Wine.”

I walk past her into the studio, and I’m frozen, a multitude of emotions coursing through me. Maybe I should have prepared myself for this better. My senses are on overload. My body feels light. I’m drifting in a haze as it all hits me at once.

Jaxon is a real artist. He did it, and I missed it all.

Claire places a serving tray in my hands and leads me around the studio, explaining the culture of Balsam Grove like there will be a test later. “In a small town like this, we have to think about our neighbors,” she says. “The studio brings the café business while the café brings the studio a service it couldn’t otherwise offer. When we close down for the night, customers usually flock to the bar down the street.” She grins, bursting with pride for her and Jaxon’s creation.

She nudges me and points to the front window, where a line has formed, starting at the front door and extending past where my eyes can see. “Three nights a week for two hours, we are the entertainment.”

My eyes scan the line of eager customers waiting to be let in the door, the end nowhere in sight. “Geez. They’re all out-of-towners? Coming to a painting class?”

“Paint by instruction,” Jaxon corrects as he breezes past me to get to the door, alpine and maple scenting the air around him. “And there will be a few locals tonight, too. Consider yourself warned.”

Claire throws me a sympathetic but amused pout while wrapping her arms around my elbow. “They’ll try to chat you up and ask all the questions because they have nothing better to do. Just keep busy, and be polite.” Then she winks. “Good luck.”

The room is filled with four long tables covered in black cloths, two dozen easel stands and canvases atop them, and white paper plates dotted with a variety of colors. Jaxon’s easel sits on a desk at the front of the room beside a canvas of what I’m assuming the finished piece should look like: a wine bottle filling a glass in one long stream, swooping around to form an incomplete heart.

Unlike the Hollow Falls bridge painting in the café, this one lacks detail and life, but it’s still beautiful. Jaxon couldn’t mess up a painting if he tried. I often joked he could build a masterpiece from a trash bin.

Loud chatter begins to fill the room, and I look to see that Jaxon has opened the door. A flood of women and a few men walk in and take their seats.

“It’s time,” Claire sing-songs beside me.

And time it is. We’re taking orders right out of the gate and filling them before the start of the lesson. We work like a machine, seamlessly taking orders, ringing them up, and serving.

I’m in the back room filling up my tray when I hear Claire come in behind me, her peach-scented perfume alerting me to her arrival before the soft patter of her Converse.

I shut the fridge with my toe and place the two beers down.

“Hey.” My eyes narrow with concern as I glance over at Claire. Her face looks pale, and her hand falls to her stomach. “Are you okay?”

She nods, her eyes widening. I know she doesn’t want me to worry. “Oh, yeah. I swear I’ve had the best pregnancy, but this last trimester has really been getting to me with the dizzy spells and the heartburn. Not to mention my feet manage to swell to the size of Texas if I’m standing for too long.” She laughs, though I can tell she’s in pain. “And whoever told me women eat more when they’re pregnant was on crack. I can’t seem to keep anything down anymore.” She sighs and slips off her apron. “Do you think you can cover? I could use some rest.”

“Of course. Go home. I’ll be fine.”

I keep the snacks and drinks flowing after she leaves, which means more time in the studio and unavoidable stares from the locals when I cross their line of sight. I’m sure this is just the beginning of it. By tomorrow, the entire town will know I’m here, and I’ll be grateful for a harsh glare or two. I expected some tension because of my father, but they seem to be forgetting that I was a victim too.

With around thirty-six students, mostly girls around my age, the night has turned into something resembling a party. Pop music streams from the surround sound speakers, and the room is filled with tipsy chatter. I don’t mind it, except for the fact that Jaxon seems to spend more time warding off his fan club than instructing.

I shouldn’t be noticing things like that, I know, but ninety minutes into the two-hour painting class, my focus has started to drift to him. It doesn’t help that Claire calls me to tell me she always brings him a glass of wine toward the end of the night. “Sounds rowdy in there. Jax will need a pick-me-up by now.” She laughs on the other end of the line.

“Thanks for the heads up. Now go rest.”

“Definitely. I’m already in bed. I’ll see you tomorrow, Aurora. Thanks, again. Oh, and great job today.”

I thank her and smile as we hang up the phone.

With Jaxon’s wine in my hand, I stall in the back of the class, not wanting to disrupt his lesson as he works his brush against the canvas. I never thought I’d see this sight again. I’d almost forgotten the effect his quick and effortless movements have over me. My eyes move from the canvas to his forearm to his back muscles rippling through his white shirt. The man is still as sexy as his art. Maybe even sexier now.

I take a deep breath before continuing forward. Jaxon turns at the same time I swipe the lonely beverage from my tray and hand it to him.

“Claire thought you could use this.”

He accepts it, his eyes never leaving mine. “That was nice of her.”

There’s something incredibly sexy about watching Jaxon drink wine. The way he holds the stem delicately between his pointer finger and thumb. The way he moves the glass so it’s circling the air, the dark red liquid swirling as he takes in the scent with a pull of his nose. The way his lips part for the glass, tipping it into his mouth. The way he swallows.

Jesus. Even Jaxon’s neck has changed—thickened—and it warms the space between my thighs.

“All right. That’s time,” he announces to the class, setting his wine glass on the table beside him and thanking me for the drink with a nod. He stands at the front of the room to give the next instruction.

Giggles and moans fill the room as paint brushes are set down. Surprisingly, even when drunk, they all listen to Jaxon.

“What’s next, teach?”

“Patience, Julie. I need to check out your masterpieces first.” More giggling ensues.

My back is against the wall as I watch Jaxon circle the room to give his feedback. He’s less broody when he’s teaching art, I notice. Approachable, even. He smiles and laughs at the appropriate times, and he even manages to crack a few jokes. None of this is out of character for the Jaxon I fell in love with. But compared to Claire’s version of him when she first met him, this version makes me happy.

My muscles lock up when a warm body comes to stand beside mine. When his arm brushes against my shoulder, I know I could combust right here. I take a moment to tamper down my nerves, taking deep, slow breaths as we stare at his painting.

A beat of silence passes before he speaks. “So.” He shoves his hands in his jeans pockets. “What do you think?”

My eyes scan the painting again, fighting for something brilliant to say. I’m at a loss. “It’s…good. Great use of colors.”

He chuckles. “Ah, that’s right. You never could lie well. You should remember, an artist’s ego needs stroking.”

“Not all artists.” Peering up at him from the side, my lips tilt in his direction. “Besides, I think you have plenty of women here more than willing to stroke whatever you ask of them.”

Heat rushes up my neck as I realize how that just sounded. But my words are all it takes for the energy between us to change from awkward to far too intense.

His eyes narrow and darken before he gives me a teasing glare and nudges my side. “Tell me the truth. What do you think?”

He always manages to make me feel exposed. “I’m no art critic…”

His brows twist as he glances at me again. “Okay. But you have an opinion. I’d like to hear it. Genuinely.”

My entire body sighs as I examine the painting once more. “Great colors, great use of lighting.” I shrug. “I don’t know. It just doesn’t wow me like the paintings in the café. Like the Hollow Falls piece, for example.” I gesture to the wine painting in front of us. “This one is imaginative, I guess, with the way the wine pours in. It’s cute. Romantic even. But it’s not realistic.”

He examines his own work again. “If I taught this class how to paint Hollow Falls, we’d need a lot more wine.”

I fail to hold back my smile. “Fair enough.” I give him a sideways glance, biting back my amusement. I love that I can make him squirm, but maybe I shouldn’t have been so honest. Art is a sensitive subject for both of us.

“Besides,” he adds on a breath. “Some art can never be replicated.” His words skim over me like the tip of a brush, slowly, fluttering on its finish. “Any imitation would be a lie.”

I try to ignore the hum of his words reverberating through my body and fixate on his painting once more. “You’re good, okay? You know you’re a great artist, Jaxon. This painting is no exception.”

This time, he laughs on a breath. “Don’t patronize me, Aurora.” His eyes cut to mine as his chest builds with air. “You’ve always been honest with me. I’d hate for you to stop now. This is shit and you know it. But this class could never pick up a paint brush the way you did.” My heart beats faster with his words. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Not before, not after. Tell me you’re still painting.” The desperation in his voice sucks the air entirely from my lungs.

Balsam Grove has always been my open sea. Overwhelming, deep with history and uncharted knowledge, and infested with mysterious creatures from my past. After six years of avoidance, I came in on a life preserver. So why do I feel as if Jaxon is a wave pushing me into a raging storm?

Just then, a student calls for his attention, and I take the opportunity to rush around the room for last call. I’m at the register when the phone rings, and I smile when I see Claire’s name on the caller ID.

“How’s it going?” For a sick pregnant lady who can’t eat, Claire seems to have a hard time speaking around whatever is in her mouth. She sounds chipper.

“Just closing out the last of the orders. Easy peasy.”

She wants to know the sales numbers, so I run them off to her.

“Wow. Great job tonight, doll. That might be a record number of orders in a single night.”

“Really?” I’m genuinely surprised. I didn’t do anything special. “It was fun.” And it’s true. I’m actually surprised by how fun tonight was. I didn’t think about my panic attacks, or the reasons why I’m here, or that I don’t belong. And it wasn’t because I was distracted. It was because I was surrounded by so much of what I used to love. The art. Jaxon. Okay, so maybe that’s only two things. But it’s progress.

“I’m so glad you loved it. I was thinking. It’s going to be tough for me to work most of those with the amount of standing. I’ll happily give up the awesome tips to veg out on chocolate-drizzled potato chips and binge on Netflix. Danny’s been grumbling that I work too much, anyway, and with his schedule we barely see each other as it is.”

My face twists. “Did you just say chocolate drizzled potato chips?”

Claire rolls her eyes. “I can feel your judgment, Aurora. Judgment is not allowed.”

Stifling a laugh, I slam the register closed. “So, you want me to take the Canvas and Wine shifts?”

“I mean, if you want the extra hours and tips, they’re yours.”

“By myself?”

“You can totally do it.” She doesn’t give me time to respond. “Anyway, just think about it. I posted the rest of the week’s schedule on the cork board in the break room. If you have any conflicts, just let me know.”

“Sounds good.” I eye the clock on the wall, seeing that class is just about over.

“I need to get going. Go ahead and lock up the café first, then you can help Jaxon clean up. I can close out the till in the morning. Just leave through the studio when you guys are done.”

We hang up, and I head back into the studio as everyone starts to shuffle out the door. Jaxon holds it open, distracted by a burgundy-haired girl in the back row. Pouty lips, flirtatious eyes, drop dead gorgeous body. She flips her hair and gives him a wide smile as she closes in. Too close. The moment her palm rests intimately on his chest, my own chest tightens. I can’t watch.

All my energy goes back into cleaning, wiping down every surface I can reach, scrubbing in places that don’t need to be scrubbed. The room is almost spotless before I hear the click of the door, signaling that the last of Jaxon’s groupies have officially left the building.

Claire warned me. Jaxon is practically famous around here. These girls go crazy for him. I saw it for myself tonight. Whatever feelings have been resurfacing need to stop—now. I’m in Balsam Grove for me. To reclaim the bits and pieces of me that were stolen long ago, and the last thing I need is Jaxon distracting me from my mission.

My pulse races when I spot a lonely wine glass, still half-full, sitting on Jaxon’s desk at the front of the room. Jaxon is there, wiping down his station and organizing his supplies. I brave it toward the front of the room, my sights set on the last wine glass. But as soon as it’s in my hands, I find myself stopping in front of the finished canvas and tracing the heart-shaped stream of acrylic paint with my eyes.

“I charge by the hour, you know.”

I jump, my heart leaping out of my chest at the sound of his voice. Wine splashes onto my hands and I turn to the side with a laugh. “That did not—”

My words are halted by my gasp when the wine in my hand slams into Jaxon’s brick wall of a chest. Deep red wine splatters onto his freshly painted canvas and his cream-colored shirt just before the glass shatters at our feet.

“Oh, shit. Oh, shit!” My heart rate spikes as I swipe a rag from my back pocket and crouch to mop the tile. And to think I almost made it out of this place unscathed. Shaking my head with embarrassment, I mop up as much wine as I can before my rag is dripping.

“Hey,” Jaxon squats to face me. “There’s glass everywhere. Let me get this.”

Acknowledging him with a shake of my head, I continue to wipe at the mess. “No, this is my mess. Let me clean it.”

“C’mon, Aurora.” He reaches for my hand to stop me, but I yank it away, losing my balance and teetering off the balls of my feet. I throw my hands back to catch me, realizing too late what a shitty idea that was. My palms hit the slippery floor, but that’s not all. What feels like one thousand tiny shards of glass pierce my left hand, and pain shoots straight up my arm.

Before I can assess the damage, Jaxon’s pulling me to my feet. “Let me go, Jaxon. I need to clean my mess.” My throat is tight, my eyes sting, and I have to fight for my next breath. Why won’t he just let me clean?

“You’re bleeding, Aurora. Stop fighting me and let me take care of you.”

I try to resist his hold, but every time I tug away from his grasp, he pulls me closer and closer until I’m officially struggling for air. I take it in in sips and hiccups, fighting like hell for my lungs to expand to feel some relief. But it’s not working, and my vision begins to fade from blurry to black.

“Let me go, Jaxon.” I squeeze out the words between each tiny breath.

He releases me, but that just seems to make it worse. I latch onto him without thinking, and his arms circle my waist, holding me tighter, steadying me.

“Hey, it’s going to be okay.” His calm, strong voice is my life preserver, and I cling to it desperately. “Can you focus on something for me? The painting. Anything. Just focus and try to breathe, okay? Deep, slow breaths.”

My eyes flicker to his lips, and my ears devour his deep rasp as it surrounds me. Meanwhile, my nose finds the slightest hint of crisp cedar in his scent while my fingers grip the edge of his shirt and tug, doing my best to ground myself in reality. And as my world threatens to fade to black, I use his strength to pull me back to the surface, trading darkness for light.

“You’ve got this, Aurora. Can you take a deeper breath for me?”

His command brings on a quick, deep breath that fills my insides, and my body goes slack in his arms. “There she is.” He’s rubbing my back as my body becomes a ragdoll in his hold. I can feel him move me, guiding my disoriented body toward the back room. “Fight me again and I’ll toss you over my shoulder.”

Under normal circumstances his growling tease would make me blush, but these are not normal circumstances. What in the world just happened to me? My panic attacks have never been like that—like I was being yanked from my body and plunged into the deepest part of the earth. Then it hits me.

My pills. My full bottle of anxiety meds that I left at Scott’s.

Shit. I thought I could try to go without them for a little while. To see if I could handle my attacks on my own. Turns out I can’t, and I’ll need to get them replaced pronto.

Once we’re in the back room, which extends the length of the studio and café, he leaves me at the breakroom sink and begins to search a wall of shelving between the bathroom and breakroom.

“Stay here.”

A spark warms my chest as I glare at him over my shoulder. “You’re so bossy.”

“Yeah, well, technically I’m your boss, so…”

I could scream at his arrogance. Instead, I let out a forced annoyed breath and fight back a smile. “You are not my boss.”

My arms wrap around my waist, holding tight as I continue to regain my equilibrium. What I find in the mirror over the sink is frightening. Disheveled hair, half out of its ponytail holder. Smeared eyeliner that makes me look like a bandit. A streak of blood across my cheek.

But then I catch Jaxon’s eyes in the mirror, and none of it matters. He’s standing behind me, the top of my head barely reaching the top of his chest, and I shiver again.

With Jaxon, I feel every silence like it’s a calm before a storm. Anticipation twists through me as I wait for his next move. I don’t have to wait long. It’s as if a vacuum has come along and sucked up all the air in the room when he presses his chest against my back and leans forward to switch on the faucet.

Leaning down, his breath dangerously close to my neck, he examines my hand. “Hmm. We’ll need to wash this blood off. It will sting, but I need to get the glass out.”

As much as I want to be stubborn about this, he’s right. So when his strong hands cup my elbows, I let him push me forward, easing my left palm under the water. At the first bite of cold, it’s like tiny needles are stabbing me. I wince.

At some point, his hands slide from my elbows to my forearms and he grips me tightly, maneuvering my hand under the water like I’m his puppet. Unnecessary, but I get the feeling he needs this. To play a part in helping me. He’s slow, careful, washing me gently until the last of the blood has left my hand and swirls down the drain.

Jaxon switches off the water and gently lifts my injured hand. Curious, I peer over my shoulder. As he examines me, I examine him back—the hard lines of his face, his unshakeable concentration. His even breathing. His jaw, cloaked with an inch of thick, dark beard I already love. His stormy gray eyes as they zero in on something in my palm.

It’s not until I feel a pinch that I realize he’s taken the first piece of glass out of my hand. Snapping my head down, I watch as he plucks out another shard and places it on a napkin beside the sink. Mesmerized, I’m glued to his every move. I’m thankful when he’s done but disappointed when he steps away after wrapping my hand in a light bandage.

I look at him over my shoulder, and we lock eyes again. There’s something unspoken there. Something that causes my eyes to drop to his mouth and my lips to part just slightly as I think, just for an instant, what it would be like to kiss Jaxon again.

Before I do anything stupid, I flip around so I’m facing him. My bandaged hand finds the edge of the sink, control quickly filling my body with each new breath. “Thank you.”

Mortified doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel right now. Between stumbling around all night serving drunken college girls with big, fat crushes on Jaxon, spilling that damn wine, cutting open my hand, and having a panic attack in front of him, tonight has been a disaster.

“May I?” He’s gesturing toward the sink so he can wash my blood from his stained hands. We swap places so I’m now standing behind him. My eyes follow the movement of his arms as they flex and move against each other, rinsing and scrubbing until his hands are clean.

I almost miss the hint of a smile on his face as he glances at me over his shoulder. “Did you really dislike my painting that much?”

Heat scales my body. That’s right. I ruined his painting, too. “I’m so sorry, Jaxon. I wish I could replace it.” Trying to ignore the fact that my face is probably as red as the wine I spilled, I step closer as he faces me. “And you shouldn’t put weight on anything I say about your art. You know you’re talented beyond measure.”

“Yeah, well. So are you.”

“Were.”

He shakes his head, his jaw hardening and lips tightening as he dries his hands on a towel. “I can’t forget what you said earlier because you were speaking the truth. Aurora, you don’t have to love everything I paint.”

“But I do.” I’m such an idiot.

He laughs, a beautiful laugh I didn’t realize how much I missed until now.

Sighing, I see that he won’t let this go. “You know better than anyone that art means something different to everyone. I guess I just prefer my art to have a story. But that doesn’t mean that piece out there isn’t beautiful.”

He studies me, tilting his head slightly as his gray eyes shimmer in the overhead lights. “Everything I create has a story. Did you ever think that? Even if you don’t remember the story, it still happened.”

I try to ignore the insinuation that his art has anything to do with me and watch him with pleading eyes. “I’m not explaining myself well. I wasn’t judging your art.”

“Of course you were. That’s what art is for. To judge, to critique. There’s no right way to see art. It’s aesthetics.” He pauses, his eyes still on mine. “If you’re spending any time thinking about how your senses are reacting, then we’re both doing our jobs—as artist and critic.”

I groan now, hating how much I love his words. Hating the effect every syllable has on my skin. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten this about me. My father was a philosopher. It’s ingrained in me to question everything. The paintings displayed in the café—those make me feel something. That’s all I meant.”

“And tonight’s painting doesn’t evoke anything? Not a romantic bone in your body, huh?”

That question sounds like a trap. Instead of answering, I turn toward the back cabinet filled with branded shirts for the café and art studio. I grab a black one that looks to be about Jaxon’s size and toss it to him. “Sorry about your shirt.”

He glances down, assessing the wine stains. “What? I was hoping you would autograph it later.”

“That’s not really my thing anymore.” It’s a confession, though I know it’s a bit abstract.

His eyes hint at acknowledgement. “You never did answer my questions earlier.”

I shrug, averting my eyes.

“Aurora.” He speaks softly, but in a scolding tone that rings my heart. “Are you seriously telling me you haven’t painted since you left?”

I nod, swallowing to steady my nerves. “I’m going to wait for you out front.”

Placing my palm on the door, I pause before opening it. His stained shirt is lifted, covering his face and revealing a tight, rippled chest and narrow waist.

Jaxon catches me staring as he flattens the new shirt against his sculpted frame. He gives me that look. The one from the very beginning when we found ourselves treading water together. It’s just a look, but it makes me feel like we share a secret.

Pushing my way out the doors and back into the café to compose myself, I press my back against the nearest wall and move my palm to my chest, trying desperately to stop the race of my pulse. I need to get Jaxon out of my head. It’s the least I can do, because there’s no way in hell I’ll ever get him out of my heart.