On His Paintbrush: A Romantic Comedy Read online

  He looked at me. "Paint me? Like paint on me or paint a painting of me?"

  There was a creepy answer and a less creepy answer. Guess which one I went with.

  "Paint on you." His eyes widened ever so slightly. "That came out wrong. Whoops! Make a painting of you. I just—you have a proportional face. I didn't mean that as some sort of innuendo. That would be creepy, and besides, I couldn't paint on you. You're wearing too many clothes," I finished lamely.

  Geez, Hazel, go right for the dial and turn the creep factor up to a hundred, why don't you? I tried to ignore him and hurried to measure out the ingredients for the drink.

  "That's easily remedied," he said then turned back to the painting. It was the big collage that Jemma had been teasing me about earlier. I was acutely aware of him studying my artwork. Maybe Jemma was right and I should have hung up something a little more intellectual.

  "This is the ugliest painting I've ever seen," the man declared.

  I froze. Jemma looked wide-eyed between us.

  "It's perfect," the man announced. "How much?"

  "Wha—"

  "How much for the painting?" he prodded. I gaped at him.

  "A thousand dollars," Jemma answered.

  "Sold," he said, walking back toward me.

  "Seriously?" I sputtered and spilled some of the liquor. "Sorry," I muttered, searching for a rag. Sexy Sunglasses took the glass and slowly licked off the spilled droplets. I swallowed. He put down the drink.

  "Nice cocktail," he all but purred.

  "You too…"

  He almost smiled. "Cock… tail?"

  "What I meant was—" I swallowed. My throat was dry. "I'm sure it's very adequate."

  "Adequate?"

  I nodded then realized what I was doing and shook my head. "I'm sure it's the talk of the town."

  "She takes credit cards," Jemma called out. Sweat dripped down under my boobs. I flapped my cropped T-shirt to try and get some air under there. His eyes followed the motion.

  "Sorry, you're making me wet," I said then hastily corrected myself. "Like sweaty, not the other kind. That would be weird."

  "It is getting a little hot in here," Sunglasses said.

  "You're not that hot." I coughed and flapped the shirt.

  "You said I was stupidly attractive."

  "Obviously you are hot, but this room is not that hot… see I have a condition…"

  "A condition," he repeated. "Like a medical condition?"

  "Like a sexual condition!" Jemma called out. The man seemed confused yet amused as I floundered.

  "You're not helping," I hissed at Jemma. I swallowed again. The sweat dripped down my scalp.

  "It's not contagious. I just go a little weird around—" I swallowed again. "Stupidly attractive men." The last bit came out in a rasp. I took a sip of the drink I had just made for Sexy Sunglasses. "Crap. I'll make you another one."

  He held up a hand to stop me. "So, attractive men make you wet? I mean sweat?"

  Trying to avoid his gaze, I rang up the painting. Or tried anyway. My iPad wouldn't register the finger taps. I wiped my hands. "It's almost as if it doesn't want your business," I joked while silently threatening the iPad with a baseball bat in an empty field. "To think, this is supposed to be a quaint, historic town, and yet here I am, offering my nighttime services," I joked desperately as the app made a frantic beeping noise and told me it couldn't connect to the server.

  "This is a brothel?" Sexy Sunglasses asked, confused.

  "Lord no! This is an upstanding establishment! I was just trying and failing to be funny. I don't do that for payment. I just paint. That's my painting. It's a joke, ha ha." More finger guns. I could feel Jemma cringing. It was like those dreams where I was back in middle school and suddenly I didn't have any clothes on, except this guy was so attractive, I actually wished I sort of didn't have any clothes on.

  "I know," he said and smiled. Then he took out a wad of cash and put it on the counter. "For the painting." He took the drink and downed the rest of it. "And that."

  I counted the money. "I can't charge you for the drink. Let me get you your change." I knew I didn't have enough cash lying around to give him money back, and I prayed some would magically appear as I opened and shut the drawers on the bar.

  "Keep it," Sexy Sunglasses said.

  I mentally did the math. "It's a seventy-five-dollar tip."

  "I like to support local business," he replied, taking the giant painting off the wall and hefting it easily with one arm. The muscles bulged under his shirt. "I like making art too. I'm a very talented finger painter, you know."

  I made a squawk like a dying chicken.

  He slipped on the sunglasses and looked over the top of them at me. Jemma shoved a handful of popcorn into her mouth.

  "Actually, I think I will take that snack," Sexy Sunglasses said, looking right at me but reaching for the popcorn. "May I?"

  "This is mine," Jemma said around the popcorn, holding the bowl to her chest. I grabbed the bowl from her, and we engaged in a brief tug-of-war.

  "It's mine."

  "You said you were on a diet, Jemma," I hissed.

  "I lied."

  "He paid a lot of money. Give me that popcorn." I wrenched it out of my friend's hands and shoved it at the man. "All yours! You even get the bowl! Come in me anytime! I mean, come back in to see me anytime!" My clothes were drenched in sweat.

  The man paused and looked at me. Seeming like he decided something, he slid a black business card across the tabletop. "If you ever want to get creative in a way that doesn't involve selling a painting," he said in that atrociously deep voice, "call me. Ask for Donut Danish."

  "I'd like to eat his donut Danish," Jemma muttered under her breath. I kicked her.

  My friend and I waved furiously through the window as Sexy Sunglasses walked to a sleek sports car parked across the street. He didn't turn around, just drove off like it was the most normal thing in the world.

  "Man," Jemma said a moment after we both managed to calm down. "You really blew that one. It was one for the record books. I was about to have a stroke from secondhand embarrassment."

  I took her drink and downed the rest in one go.

  "Blue-eyed devil walks into a bar," she said, eating a piece of spilled popcorn off the table.

  "Gray," I said automatically. "His eyes are gray."

  Jemma looked at me in bemusement. "You noticed."

  "I'm a painter. I notice colors," I said, crossing my arms.

  "Uh-huh. Well, he did say he was a good finger painter. Maybe you two should compare notes." She waved the black business card.

  "I'm not going to call him!" I shrieked. "I can never see him again!"

  Jemma left a little while later, and I set about cleaning the café and locking up for the night. Sexy Sunglasses's card was still on the counter. I looked at it. It only had a phone number printed in a shiny ink against the matte black. It was so pretentious it had to be a little tongue-in-cheek.

  I'd like his tongue somewhere else…

  "Shut up," I said out loud.

  But the card beckoned me. I missed out on my true Sex in the City New York experience. Maybe I would channel my inner Melvin. Maybe I would call.

  2

  Archer

  I am a creature of the night. When other people are waking up, that's when I'm just going to bed. Work hard, play hard. Of course that lifestyle choice makes more sense for a single billionaire playboy out on the town in Manhattan. It doesn't work so well in a historic small town at the family estate complete with three dozen younger non-drinking-age little brothers.

  I had barely fallen asleep when they woke me up. I'd like to say I was using my middle-of-the-night awake time productively. It wasn't like I didn't have work to do for my hotel conglomerate. I needed to come up with a game plan to make my conference center idea profitable and to get my older brother Greg off my case. But instead, all I could think about was the curvy painter in the cute crop top. I sat for hours in front of the painting I had just bought. It was insane—the glitter, the pink, the collage—but I kept studying it, taking in the small hidden sketches layered onto the vintage makeup advertisements accentuated by the subtle shading of pinks. It spoke to more depth than I would normally find in a craft-store inspirational painting.

  I should know quality when I see it. I collect art. I put it in my hotels and use it as a secondary investment portfolio along with all the real estate I own. Still, this painting wasn't my normal style. I wasn't even sure why I bought it except that the café owner was so adorably cute in her paint-stained pants, her hair a big poofy ponytail.

  She wasn't like any of the women I usually went for, and I went for a lot. My usual women were like photographs printed on canvas—all flash and no substance. Hazel was different.

  Stop it, I told myself. I wasn't ready to admit that I was tired of the playboy life. Besides, I had ruined any chance of being with the café owner by simply giving her that card.

  The door to my room rattled as several of my younger brothers banged their fists on it.

  "Breakfast, Archer!"

  "Don't you want breakfast? Josie's cooking."

  I hauled myself out of bed and grabbed the bowl of popcorn that was on the nightstand. There were a few handfuls left, and it was just as good the next morning. I hadn't even bothered undressing before collapsing on the bed a few hours ago. Now I was starving.

  "I can't say no if Josie's cooking," I said, swinging the bedroom door open. My brothers shrieked. Henry, the youngest, clung to my leg. I picked him up and swung him under my arm as we went down to the large kitchen in the estate house.

  My identical twin brother, Mace, was already downstairs. Though we looked alike, he was my polar opposite. His suit was neatly pressed, his hair combed back. He was concentrating on helping Josie, his girlfriend. She was formerly Mace's assistant. There had been a kerfuffle, and long story short, Josie now lived here.

  She was also somehow in charge of making breakfast. Josie ran around the kitchen, hair flying. She knocked into a pan, and Mace caught it before it fell on the floor. I felt a pang of jealousy that I stuffed down. I was happy for my brother. I just couldn't believe that the perfect woman had dropped into his lap.

  "Need help?" I asked Josie, setting Henry down.

  "Yes," she said. She looked frazzled. Mace lovingly tucked one of the errant curls back in her bun. "But I'm the worst at organizing, and really what I need is a field marshal to get everyone in an assembly line. All the college kids are throwing me off."

  My college-aged brothers were back home for summer break. They stood around the kitchen, tall, still a little gangly, and very, very hungry.

  "It's double the amount of people," Josie continued.

  "I know. This place is like a prison," I said.

  Mace frowned at me. "It's nice to have everyone together. You should set a better example." He looked meaningfully at my rumpled appearance.

  "I thought you were helping him lighten up," I said to Josie.

  "Not right now. I have to go into Manhattan to help your brother, Liam, with his marketing plan. And I had food stockpiled." She glared lovingly at Eli, Tristan, and the rest of the cohort. "But they ate everything!" Josie said as she grabbed a large casserole pan out of the oven. My mouth watered. "It's already gone. All of it!"

  I slowly took a bite of the popcorn.

  "What are you eating?" Arlo asked, looking up at me with big eyes.

  "You guys are like pigeons," I said as several of my younger brothers crowded around me.

  "You made popcorn?" Mace asked disapprovingly as I chucked pieces of the snack at my little brothers.

  "I got it from a bar."

  "I thought you came to Harrogate to work, not go barhopping," an annoyed voice said behind me. There was Greg, the ever-present look of general disapproval affixed firmly to his face. He was followed by Mike, my business partner at Greyson Hotel Group.

  "I need to hire someone to play villain music every time Greg walks into a room," I said. "You want a job, Henry?"

  "I want a job," Eli said. "You should hire me and Tristan. We're almost done with college."

  "Um, no. I'm not a babysitter."

  Mace frowned. "I'm taking in several of our younger brothers as interns at Svensson PharmaTech. You need to take a few of them on at Greyson Hotel Group. Family should support each other."

  "And look how well that worked with Adrian," I scoffed. Adrian glared at me. "Did you ever get the money back?"

  "He made a mistake," Mace insisted.

  I snorted.

  "You were a mistake," Adrian shot back at me. "Mace should have eaten you in the womb."

  "Gross."

  Greg turned to Hunter, the oldest, who was handing carafes of coffee to the kids to take into the dining room. "Is this what you allow to go on over here? This place is a zoo."

  "Right? I can't believe how disorganized this place is," I said to Greg, knowing it would rile up Hunter. I enjoyed irritating Greg. Sometimes when I felt like really flying close to the edge, I would try and set him and Hunter against each other. Bonus points if I could set Mace off as well and let the three of them spiral into chaos. I snickered to myself. They should call me Loki.

  "Maybe if you did more than breeze in here, throw your weight around, and then leave," Hunter growled.

  "Are you going to let him talk to you like that, Greg?" I asked, hugging the popcorn bowl to my chest in mock shock.

  My older brother's eyes narrowed. "This type of behavior is not inspiring me to invest in your conference center."

  "You were supposed to butter him up," I complained to Mike. "You know, make a really nice spreadsheet and show him how much money we're going to make."

  "I'm not even sure Harrogate can physically hold a conference of the size you're talking about," Mike said, rolling up his sleeves. "The old Mast Brothers' chocolate factory is huge, yes, but we need hotel space, and the city of Harrogate will not allow us to demolish any of the existing historic brick buildings to build hotels."

  "We have enough space. Svensson Investment owns all that land in Harrogate," I said as Mike cut up fruit.

  "I will not allow you to build hotels on every single parcel I own," Greg said, setting down his briefcase and jacket on a stool.

  "There's the strip mall next door. Buy that," Hunter said.

  "We need to talk to the city about it," Mike warned. "I think they own it with the Mast Brothers' chocolate factory site. They may not want to sell it."

  "The bigger issue," Hunter said, "is that you don't even have a marketing plan to attract conferences large enough to justify such a large complex of exhibition halls. You need to bring tens of thousands of people here several times a month to make a profit."

  "We're like two hours outside of New York City. By car, it takes about as long to drive here for a conference as it does to sit in traffic going into Manhattan," I scoffed. "Besides, I'll pay Josie to do a killer marketing campaign."

  "My plate is full," Josie said as she slid another breakfast casserole out of the oven. She motioned to me, and I tossed a piece of popcorn at her. She caught it in her mouth. "That's pretty good."

  "It's Jackson Pollock popcorn," I said. Greg looked at me in disgust.

  "You know what you could do?" Josie said thoughtfully. "The Harrogate Trust has an art and beautification committee. A few of the girls on the committee are trying to convince the Art Zurich Biennial Expo to choose Harrogate for their big exhibition in a couple years. The Art Zurich Biennial is like the Olympics but for art. There are grants associated with it, and the convention is enormous. But to win the host spot, Harrogate has to show we can handle such a large influx of people. There're a couple more spots on the committee. Maybe you could join up."

  "I'm not really a committee person," I said. "I'm a lone wolf."

  "Well then, it sounds like you're not really a conference person because that's the only solid plan anyone has put forth for how this conference center isn't going to be an abject failure," Greg snapped.

  "You like art. You collect it," Mace cajoled.

  I groaned dramatically.

  "You need to prove to us Harrogate has a market for large conferences," Hunter warned, "if you want Svensson Investment to give you money for the real estate deal."

  Mike looked at Josie. "Do you think Harrogate can win?"

  Josie smiled at me. "If Archer's there helping give the entry some pizzazz, I think we might have a good shot. Meetings are at nine in the morning. You should be able to make the one today."

  I sighed. "I guess I'll go. I just don't want to get wrapped up in small-town politics."

  "Harrogate isn't that small," Mace said. "Besides, it's not the size that counts. It's how you use it." He smirked at Josie.

  "Not that anything about you is small," she said, her mouth quirking slightly.

  "There are children present, Mace!" I said, clapping my hands dramatically over Henry's ears. He was too interested in the food waiting on the counter to notice.

  Josie waved oven mitts at Greg and Hunter and motioned them to each grab a casserole and take it to the dining room.

  "Before we worry about the Art Zurich expo," Greg said, "we need to buy the land. The meeting with the city about the factory site is in a couple of days. There won't even be a conference center if Archer blows it."

  "I've done hundreds of these types of presentations!" I countered, taking the platter of fruit. "I'm the master of sales pitches."

  Greg's phone rang, interrupting my speech. I adjusted the fruit platter, and I helpfully pulled the phone out of his briefcase and glanced at the number.

  "It's a Harrogate area code," I told my half brother.

  "Put it on speaker. I've been trying to get people to give me more information about the strip mall site since apparently I have to do your work for you now," he said as I followed him into the large dining room. My older brother Remy was already in there, setting out utensils and stacks of plates.

  "Hello," Greg called in my direction while he slid the casserole onto the long buffet.