On His Paintbrush: A Romantic Comedy Read online

  On His Paintbrush

  A Romantic Comedy

  Alina Jacobs

  Contents

  Other books by Alina Jacobs

  Synopsis

  Acknowledgments

  Mailing List

  1. Hazel

  2. Archer

  3. Hazel

  4. Archer

  5. Hazel

  6. Archer

  7. Hazel

  8. Archer

  9. Hazel

  10. Archer

  11. Hazel

  12. Archer

  13. Hazel

  14. Archer

  15. Hazel

  16. Archer

  17. Hazel

  18. Archer

  19. Hazel

  20. Archer

  21. Hazel

  22. Archer

  23. Hazel

  24. Archer

  25. Hazel

  26. Archer

  27. Hazel

  28. Archer

  29. Hazel

  30. Archer

  31. Hazel

  32. Archer

  33. Hazel

  34. Archer

  35. Hazel

  36. Archer

  37. Hazel

  38. Archer

  39. Hazel

  40. Archer

  41. Hazel

  42. Archer

  43. Hazel

  44. Archer

  45. Hazel

  46. Archer

  47. Hazel

  48. Archer

  49. Hazel

  50. Archer

  51. Hazel

  52. Archer

  53. Hazel

  54. Archer

  55. Hazel

  56. Archer

  57. Hazel

  58. Archer

  59. Hazel

  60. Archer

  61. Hazel

  62. Archer

  63. Hazel

  64. Archer

  65. Hazel

  66. Archer

  67. Hazel

  68. Archer

  69. Hazel

  70. Archer

  71. Hazel

  Sneak peek

  Paint Him

  1. Archer

  2. Hazel

  Read Paint Him

  About the Author

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright ©2019 by Alina Jacobs

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Created with Vellum

  Other books by Alina Jacobs

  Check out other books about characters mentioned in this one on my website:

  http://alinajacobs.com/books.html

  Synopsis

  Archer

  When I first laid eyes on the curvy brunette, she made me a drink then said I made her wet

  I couldn’t pass up the invitation.

  I wanted her to paint me like one of her French boys.

  Before I walked out of her dinky small town café, I left my card, all black.

  I'll show her—this billionaire can be very creative.

  I am, after all, quite a talented finger painter!

  Hazel

  I turn weird and awkward around attractive men. I'm a nervous sweater, and when Archer walked into my art café that night, he was making me soaking wet. He was stupidly attractive—which caused me to go into excruciating detail about my sweating problem, insult what he had under his fig leaf, and imply I was running a brothel.

  But he left his card, so I couldn’t have been all bad.

  I needed the ego boost. My career as an artist was a joke. I was desperately trying to live the #bossbabe life after I couldn't hack it as an artist in New York City and moved back to my small hometown.

  Now my business is failing.

  I'm hosting an artists' retreat that is more day drinking octogenarians than renowned painters.

  The mean girl from art school moved into town and is trying to ruin my life.

  But hey, suffering is inspirational, right? But then so is Archer. With his model good looks and muscular, tattooed chest, Archer might be the creative, maybe even crazy, idea that I desperately need to save my disaster of a life.

  So I called…And immediately regretted it.

  When I yelled at him later about the practical joke, he smiled that stupid hot smile. I knew I should forget I ever met Archer Svensson—knew he was just a crazy stupid idea.

  But when he said in that deep, sexy voice, "Do you want to paint me nude?" well, let's just say, he awoke the starving artist in me.

  This standalone, full length romantic comedy has no cliffhangers! It features a boiling hot romance, the largest selection of hot brothers to ever grace your e-reader, and a heroine prone to making suggestive comments!

  To the next door neighbors who refuse to keep their giant Doberman from barking…it’s a miracle I was able to finish this book.

  Acknowledgments

  A big thank you to Red Adept Editing for editing and proofreading.

  And finally a big thank you to all the readers! I had a great time writing this hilarious book! Grab a drink (you deserve it!) and enjoy!

  Mailing List

  Read the short romantic comedy, PAINT HIM, along with other novellas and short stories for free when you join my mailing list!

  alinajacobs.com/mailinglist.html

  1

  Hazel

  The desire to create is supposed to be the deepest yearning of the human soul. At least that was what one of my professors at my horrifyingly expensive private arts college would tell us. His name was Gustav, and he was from the Netherlands. Gustav also spent most of the class time that we were paying thousands of dollars for screaming at his agent on the phone about why his paintings weren't selling.

  I think that might have been when I started to give up on art, if I'm being honest. Unfortunately, back then I ignored the little voice in my head that said, Switch to accounting. You would do well in accounting.

  No, I told that voice, I want to be a cool artist. I had grand visions of owning a chic studio in Brooklyn with all-white walls and glass garage doors. A billionaire art investor would walk in, see my paintings, and buy every single one. It would catapult me into the art-world stratosphere, making me the next Fang Fei. I would be asked to sit on the Art Zurich board. I would travel around, giving talks. My paintings would fetch millions of dollars at auction…

  The dream never materialized after I graduated. Did I then listen to the voice in my head telling me to go get a job, for the love of God, any job? No. No I did not. For the next three years, I scraped around in New York City. Instead of getting a chic art studio, I interned for free at snooty galleries and worked nights as a chef for pop-up restaurants. I sublet an illegal apartment that was really a windowless walk-in closet. My roommate was a guy named Melvin who had moved to New York City to live his best gay life. That included bringing random men home to the closet. Ironic right? Melvin seemed to think so. He would remind me of this fact loudly at three in the morning. Every. Single. Time. Sometimes this revelation would be accompanied by Melvin and his hookup du nuit singing that Alanis Morissette song drunkenly off-key.

  My life post art college was sad and lonely. The only Sex in the City I got was whatever I experienced vicariously through Melvin. My unpaid internships did nothing to put a dent in the massive student loans I had racked up. I had to face the cold hard truth that, though I may love art, it did not love me back. All it did was make me poor and
miserable. So I packed up my paintbrushes and said goodbye to the closet. By that point I was living in it all by myself. Melvin had found a rich guy, adopted a bunch of kids, and moved to Seattle. Meanwhile, I was fast approaching thirty and had nothing to show for myself.

  In a delusional fit of third-time's-the-charm, I took out even more debt and bought a historic building on Main Street in my small hometown of Harrogate. I had grand visions, (anyone see a pattern here???) of turning it into the hip Art Café where there would be painting, themed alcoholic drinks, and tasty food. I had the restaurant background and the art background. How could it possibly go wrong?

  "Where did it all go wrong?" I wailed to my friend Jemma. We were sitting in the Art Café. We were the only ones there. This was a usual occurrence and the reason I had a minor panic attack every time the mail carrier showed up with a stack of late notices. "Why did I buy this building?"

  Jemma sipped on her Michelangelo mojito. "It was so cheap! You're lucky you bought it before the Svenssons snapped it up."

  "It's not cheap enough to pay the mortgage." I set down my paintbrush and picked at the bowl of Jackson Pollock popcorn. It had truffle butter and parmesan on it. Usually it was one of my favorite snacks I made at the café, but not tonight.

  "It was busy yesterday," Jemma consoled me.

  "Because Ida brought all of the seniors over after bingo night," I said, wiping my hands then adding touches of light-green oil paint to the eyes of a baby in a vegetable patch I was painting for an Etsy commission.

  "Maybe you could cater more toward that demographic," Jemma suggested, grabbing a handful of popcorn.

  "I already have the art retreat," I complained. "If I start hosting canasta evening, this place is basically going to be an old folks' home."

  "Hey, if they pay!" Jemma said with a laugh.

  "I should have quit a long time ago and found a real job," I said. I looked around at my artwork that hung on the café walls. "I know I'm supposed to suffer for my art, but when does it end?"

  Jemma gestured to one of the paintings. Instead of the avant-garde paintings we were trained to make in art school, I now made what I considered to be inspiration porn. Paintings of shoes, purses, and women in suits and high heels with quotes like, I know I changed, darling. That was the point! and Slip on the Louboutins and get dat money! I desperately wanted to be the next It artist, like Fang Fei, and sell my paintings for millions. Instead I was lucky to make a hundred fifty dollars off a painting.

  "Your sister could find you a job in the city government," Jemma said.

  "Then I'd have to move back home. I'm on the wrong side of twenty-five. I cannot move back into my childhood bedroom."

  "You might win that Art Zurich grant," Jemma said, trying to fish a piece of booze-soaked watermelon out of her drink.

  "I only win it if Harrogate wins the Art Zurich Biennial Expo," I reminded her. "And to make this place into an international art city would cost more money than what the Harrogate Trust budgeted."

  I looked up at the inspiration porn painting in front of me. It was the biggest painting in the café, and the colorful pink-and-gold swirls taunted me with the thought that I simply wasn't trying hard enough.

  "Wasn't Fang Fei discovered by a billionaire?" Jemma asked, taking another handful of popcorn.

  "She was lucky," I grumbled.

  "On the off chance that a famous art investor walks in and discovers you, you should at least put up some of your nicer paintings," Jemma said.

  "Collages are very much the style right now," I sniffed. "Fang Fei just sold one similar to this for three million dollars."

  "Really?" Jemma asked skeptically. "Fang Fei sold a painting that said, 'May your day be as flawless as your makeup' in pink curly letters over a selection of vintage advertisements?"

  "Well, not exactly, but motivational artwork is very popular. I've sold two of these paintings in the last month. Also I get Instagram likes off of it."

  "Instagram likes don't pay bills," Jemma said.

  "Don't remind me. I had to block the phone calls from the bank."

  "At least reglaze that one. I think it's flaking bits of newspaper. You don't want the health department in here," Jemma said, munching more popcorn.

  "Fine," I grumbled. "I'm just over here trying to move the art world forward."

  Jemma snickered. "You don't even like those paintings. Why don't you put up the cute one of the chunky raccoon?"

  "Don't underestimate the power of coffee and a girl with a dream," I quipped, gesturing toward the painting that displayed the quote.

  "You don't even drink coffee," Jemma reminded me.

  "Don't walk all over my dreams. A billionaire art investor could walk in here right now and see the genius behind this painting of a baby in a vegetable patch," I said, gesturing dramatically to the almost-completed canvas.

  "'I treat myself to French manicures because, when I snap my fingers, things happen,'" I quoted.

  "Your fingernails are covered in paint," Jemma said, laughing.

  "You don't know. I could be famous," I retorted, snapping my fingers. "Just like that!"

  The door slammed open, cracking against the opposite wall. Jemma and I screamed and clung to each other.

  The warm summer air blew in, followed by a man—a very attractive man. I gaped at him. Tattoos traced up his forearms and around his collar and disappeared into the dress shirt that was unbuttoned one button too many to count as professional. He had expensive-looking sunglasses pushed up on his head. Normally I would consider a guy who wore sunglasses at night to be a grade-A douche, but I would allow the infraction to pass this time.

  He tilted his head slightly, and Jemma and I swooned.

  "Hazel, I think you have a customer," Jemma whispered after a moment.

  "Hi," I said breathlessly. Then I cleared my throat. I couldn't be the groupie of a guy I hadn't even seen before. He was just so attractive. His blond hair had this artfully messy style and hung a little in his face.

  "Are you open?" the man asked after a minute of enduring our staring.

  "I am very open, wide open; you might say, Spread open. I mean—" I coughed, the nervous sweat starting to bead on my skin. "Yes, my shop is peddling wares."

  Jemma threw her straw at me.

  "Would you like me to drink? I mean, would you like me to make you a drink?" My voice cracked. I always got tongue-tied around attractive men. Actually, tongue-tied was a generous understatement. I got awkward, weird, and frankly downright creepy around attractive men.

  Get it together, Hazel. You're a small business owner—for a little while longer at least.

  "I'll drink you, if you're offering," Sexy Sunglasses Man said. He didn't wink or anything, just stared at me like I was on the menu. I blushed from my chest to the roots of my hair. Trying to tell myself it was the summer heat, I ran to the bar.

  "We have Monet martinis, Old Fashioned Norman Rockwells," I said, rattling off the list of artist-inspired cocktails. The attractive man seemed confused until he realized I was going through all the cocktails along with their descriptions and ingredients.

  "That's quite the cocktail list," he said and jerked his head slightly at the chalkboard menu.

  "Right, ha ha! I guess you can read. Sometimes you can't tell with really attractive people if they even bothered to learn or not."

  You're blowing it, Hazel.

  Jemma choke-laughed into her drink at the table. The man's eyelids lowered slightly, and he made this sort of growl in the back of his throat. Gawd, his voice was so deep! It was like the Starry Night painting—I just wanted to fall into it.

  "I'll take the Old Fashioned," he said.

  "Of course. Would you like to snack on me? Sorry, would you like me to make you a snack?" I gave him a pained smile.

  His eyes swept down my form then settled back on my face. "Maybe later."

  "We have—" I started to rattle off the bar snack menu.

  "I can read it," he said. He was slightl
y annoyed.

  "Of course. You're not that attractive."

  Jemma cut off a shriek of laughter.

  "You don't think I'm attractive?" he asked, staring at me with intense gray eyes.

  "I mean you're not stupid attractive. Just stupidly attractive," I amended. "Feel free to peruse the artwork while you wait." I even did finger guns. Kill me.

  The hint of a smirk played around his stupidly attractive mouth as the man slowly walked around the small historic building. I didn't have much, okay any, money really to decorate. I had done what I could with paint and old furniture I refinished. Sweat dripped down my back as the well-dressed man slowly studied my artwork.

  "See anything you like?" I chirped.

  His gaze swung back toward me. "Maybe."

  "If you don't, I can paint you," I offered then mentally kicked myself.