Covered In Paint: Art Of Love, #5

1

Drake always found early mornings were the best time to work out on the sun porch that served as his artist’s studio. Free of both blinds and curtains, light poured in through the windows, but still barely lit up the faint gray lines on his canvas this morning. Turning forty had not been kind to his vision. He’d even had to start using reading glasses to do his administrative tasks at work. It seemed like his eyes were prone to straining these days, no matter how good the light, especially when he was drawing.

He was still in the pencil stage of his latest painting, trying to get the shape of his subject’s shoulders right before he worried about skin color, tone, and texture. His task was made more difficult by the fact he was still having to use his imagination too much. He’d never physically seen the shoulders he was trying to draw, though it wasn’t for lack of wanting to see them. Life had intervened—over and over—preventing the opportunity. His son, who was now in the process of moving back home, was a magnet for crisis after crisis.

There had been a myriad of foiled attempts to date the beautiful, sharp-tongued, but ever so alluring Dr. Brooke Daniels. Well, maybe not exactly a myriad—maybe more like three or four—if you counted social occasions. But whatever the number, it was still too many times to keep failing. When he was feeling most sorry for himself, Drake wondered if he and Brooke were simply fated never to connect. Then his mind returned to fantasizing about seeing her naked. Bad timing could be fixed. Right?

Attraction like the kind he had for Brooke had only come to him twice in his life. He wasn’t going to give up on it just because it wasn’t happening the way he wanted. Maturity had to count for something when it came to women.

You’ve turned me into a damn teenager again, Brooke. I’m more obsessed with you than my college age son has ever been over a female, Drake informed the feminine outline taking shape.

Abandoning her shoulders, he moved his attention to adding her hair, his steady fingers deftly cascading it down her back in long, sweeping strokes. Lifting his pencil to inspect his efforts, Drake decided he’d at least gotten one feature perfect. Of course, Brooke’s hair had looked just like his rendering nearly every time he’d ever seen her.

Getting the color right when he added paint was going to be the real challenge. Brooke’s hair was a hundred shades of red and brown living next to each other on her head. Various groups of silky strands caught different amounts of light with every animated turn of her stubborn chin.

When the timer on the microwave dinged in the next room, Drake forced himself to set the pencil down in the easel tray. Years of splitting the artist off from the professor had given him a precise discipline. It was eight o’clock. Time to dress and head to work. His commute was a brisk hike of forty-five minutes. He liked to be in his office by nine thirty. His arrival was timed for just after the class rush because it gave him time to settle into his office before staff and students started making demands.

See you tonight, Gorgeous. I’ll work on your shoulders again if the light is decent.

He laughed a little at himself for talking so much to his paintings. Maybe he should have taken Brandon’s advice and gotten a dog when his son had gone off to college in another state. He’d lived alone so long now without any adult companionship, he tended to share his random thoughts with whatever inanimate object was closest.

Of course, Brandon was moving back so he’d have company again soon, at least temporarily. The thought should have thrilled him, but he’d been trying for over five months to get all the crazy in his life aligned so he could date. He hadn’t asked Brooke out again because he wanted to damn well not leave the woman stranded at the end of another evening.

Shaking his head at his self-pitying thoughts, Drake decided he really needed to get more of a life.

Brooke lifted her fork from her salad, glad now she’d opted for lunch instead of agreeing to dinner. Dr. Greg Jensen was extremely good looking, but also extremely boring. She had spent the last forty-five minutes listening to his non-stop chatter about his work, his life, and—shudder—his ex-wife leaving him in the middle of the night.

Greg was within a few years of her age. His cheek revealed an attractive dimple when he smiled, except it only happened about things he said. What was she thinking? Her instincts had warned lunch was a bad idea, but had she listened to her instincts? No. Now she was stuck being polite and pretending interest, at least until her salad was finished.

The guy her mother had dated before Will should have been her clue to stay away from math teachers. He’d been equally good looking… and equally lame. The guy hadn’t even been able to look at one of her mother’s glass vaginas without cringing. Not that she felt all that comfortable around them either, but if she’d been trying to sleep with the person who created them, she’d at least have faked some interest.

Brooke sighed at her disappointment and pushed her long hair back behind her shoulders. Looks definitely were not everything… or even the most important thing. You’d think she would have learned that after all the great-looking law students she’d dated in college.

When Greg smiled at her, she smirked back. The nuance of her facial expression didn’t even faze him.

This has been great, Brooke. We should do lunch more often. I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun talking to a woman.

Brooke sighed again when the man flashed her his perfect-toothed smile. They might have made pretty babies together if she’d had any faith the man would stop talking long enough to provide her with great, baby-making sex. Her quiet snort at her own thoughts signaled just how much derision she had about the man addressing her. She would never be happy with anyone who held the capacity Greg Jensen did to ignore her so well physically. The man’s gaze had never strayed from hers as he rambled on and on about his trials and achievements.

Well, I better get back to my office and collect my books. I’ve got class in a few minutes, Brooke said, rising from her chair.

Really? I hate that you have to leave so soon. Now I’m sorry I talked so much and didn’t get to hear more about you. I never even asked if you were enjoying teaching psychology at UK. I know the social sciences chair—Dr. Angel—great guy.

Brooke piled her mangled napkin and the rest of her dishes on the cafeteria tray before glaring at her lunch companion. I teach philosophy, Greg.

Without saying anything more, not even goodbye, she turned on her heel and walked away. She wasn’t really mad at the man’s mistake about her field of study—well okay, maybe she was a bit miffed since he’d been the one who’d pursued—but mostly she was just desperately disappointed. It had been months since she’d gone out with Drake and longer since she’d had any intimacy. The date with Drake had ended up being just another aborted evening with the man, but he could have at least tried to keep her hope of a sexual relationship between them alive by scheduling coffee now and again.

His kiss goodbye as he’d rushed away still tingled…damn it.

All she wanted was one night in his bed. Just one. Maybe it would cure her obsession, which obviously had her unfairly writing off all the handsome Greg Jensens in the world as bed partners. But she’d be damned if she went crawling to Drake and begging for it. Call it pride or stubbornness or whatever. The man knew she was interested in sleeping with him. She’d both told him and shown him. How long did he intend to make her wait?

Something had to give. Brooke just didn’t know what.

Shane had felt sorry for her and tried to fix her up with his friend, Joe. Yet even before she’d gone to have dinner at Shane’s to meet him, she had pretty much decided she wouldn’t be happy dating a fellow redhead. Even as charmed as she’d been by Joe’s genuine good-natured sense of humor, she couldn’t bring herself to flirt her way to a follow-up. They joked and laughed. That’s as far as it got. Plus, she’d caught the more-than-casually-interested expression on his face every time someone talked about the kids’ aunt who was apparently struggling to adjust to a new job of some sort. Maybe she was wrong about the vibe she got from Joe about being interested in the missing woman, but she didn’t think so. She was usually pretty good at reading people.

Will and her mother were settling into marriage. Time in their company made her wistful about having no marital prospects.

Being around Carrie and Michael wasn’t any help either. Michael’s long ponytail reminded her too much of Drake’s shorter one for her to not think of him whenever she was in their company for long. With a baby on the way, Michael and Carrie were getting nervous and had become too tight a unit to have room for comforting the lonely stepsister.

There was just no reprieve for her love-wise, not with nearly everyone in her new family oozing marital bliss. Being constantly exposed to that kind of lasting happiness was precisely why she hadn’t resorted to picking someone up in a bar and getting a quick fix. Plus her obsession was too large and had taken over too much of her brain. It would be beyond embarrassing to be calling Drake’s name with some other man.

But if something didn’t happen soon, she was going to be the crankiest philosophy teacher that ever walked the halls on campus.

2

Drake sighed at the boxes lining one wall of his long hallway before adding one to a stack. The brownstone he rented had been divided into two sections shortly before he moved in. Though smaller and less well laid out, he had asked for the bottom floor because it had a four season sunroom off the back, which could double as an art studio. Today that decision offered a bigger blessing because it also meant he didn’t have to climb stairs lugging Brandon’s stuff.

He blew out a breath when his son carried in two more boxes. His obvious frustration with the clutter had his son laughing and offering a typical Brandon-esque shrug of unconcern.

Tell me that’s the last of your things, Drake ordered.

Brandon laughed at the panic on his father’s face. Don’t worry about the mess, Dad. I’m going to look for my own place soon. This move-in with you is strictly temporary. I’m just glad Sedrick was willing to detour through Cambridge and help me get it all home.

Huffing out another breath, Drake ran a tired hand over his unshaven jaw. Yes, he’d also been grateful for the generosity from Brandon’s friend. It had saved him a very long and lonely trip up north and back.

You’re my son, and I love you. I’m not upset about you moving back home. In fact, it was actually relieving to me until I saw your stuff. Now I’m just wondering if Harvard cleaned out their dorm basement into your car. How could you possibly be coming home with twice the crap you left with? You weren’t even gone a full year.

Brandon shrugged and laughed at his father’s teasing. It’s really not as bad as it looks. I’m just a lousy packer.

Drake grinned. For both our sakes, I hope that’s the truth.

He started toward the kitchen, then stopped and walked back. Putting his arms around his son, he hugged tight, noting the boy was the same height and breadth he was now. How had such a change happened without his full awareness? It had only been two damn semesters.

I love you. Welcome back.

When Drake let go he pushed off quickly, knowing Brandon didn’t like a hug to linger too long. He had learned long ago to hide his struggle to treat his son as more man than a child. Surprise had him grinning when Brandon looked sheepish.

I missed you too much to stay so far away, Dad. Harvard was great, but I wasn’t getting much from it. My grades were okay to stay, but it seemed like a waste of my time and your money. I should have gone to UK like you suggested. You can say I told you so if it would make you feel better.

Brandon’s capitulation had him smirking at his suddenly wise child. It would for a few seconds at least, but I’m too tired to speak after lugging all your stuff, he said, liking Brandon’s laugh at his statement. I don’t know about you, but I have to have food. Come to the kitchen when the car is empty. I’ll make sandwiches.

Brandon heaved a big sigh. Great. I’m starved. I didn’t stop after I hit the Ohio border.

Drake snorted and started toward the kitchen again. He heard Brandon humming as he headed back out.

Hey Dad?

Drake stopped and looked back at his son who had paused in the doorway.

How mad would you be if I went to a party later? I swear on a stack of Bibles I will get all this into my room tomorrow. Sedrick’s brother is throwing a party and has offered to introduce me to his frat brothers.

Drake laughed. A UK fraternity? You didn’t go out for one of those at Harvard.

Are you kidding? No way, Brandon said, shaking his head. I would have had to wear a dorky shirt and sweater. This is different. I bleed blue now. Students get to paint their faces during ball games.

Drake laughed again at Brandon’s declaration. Blue faces. Well, too bad you didn’t bleed blue last summer.

Dad—

Drake laughed. Go—but no drinking. You’re still underage at nineteen, and I’m a professor. You screw up and you’ll be riding a bicycle for the rest of your academic career wherever you decide to complete it.

Noted Professor Barrymore, Sir. Soda and nothing else tonight. You have my word.

Drake sighed again when the door closed behind his smart-ass son. He was going to miss the comfortable distance from Brandon’s maturation process an out-of-state college had provided. But on the upside at least he wasn’t going to have to drive cross-country for a car emergency anymore.

Brandon walked into the party behind Sedrick, smiling as the beats pounded the air around him. Bodies gyrating on the dance floor were highly entertaining, but girl watching would have to wait. He smiled as he met Sedrick’s brother, Rafe, who introduced him around.

Along with everyone else, his head swung around in surprise when he heard a girl yelling at a guy near him. He almost swallowed his tongue at the long-legged, short-skirted beauty trying to escape the groping hands of a guy laughing at her efforts.

"Chelsea?" Brandon exclaimed. He forgot the guys he was talking to as he walked over to her. She was so angry—and she was weaving as she struggled to break the guy’s hold on her.

What did you put in my drink, Darryl? Chelsea demanded, pummeling his shoulder with her free hand. Oh God, I feel sick. Tell me what you gave me.

Nothing bad, sweetie. Just a little something to help you relax a bit, Darryl drawled, patting the seat beside him. Come back here and sit by me until it has time to kick in.

Brandon reached out and grabbed her free arm. The guy let go of her when he did. Chelsea? You okay?

Chelsea turned and stumbled against a pair of strong arms that caught her and tried to hold her up. "Who are you… Brandon? Is that really you?"

Yeah, of course, it’s really me. What’s up? Brandon asked.

Chelsea shook her head, which only made things worse. I’m dizzy. Asshat over there put something in my drink, but he won’t tell me what. We told Aunt Teresa we were going to a movie. She’s going to kill me if I have to go to the hospital to get my stomach pumped.

Brandon turned a glare on a laughing Darryl. What did you give her?

None of your damn business, Darryl said sharply.

Brandon snorted and glared harder. Well, I’m making it my business. What did you give her, dude? You can either tell me or you can tell the whole Larson family when they come looking for your sorry ass.

Around them dancing stopped and all eyes turned to see what was going on between him and Darryl.

"Well dude—she’s my date—not yours. What I do with her is my business, Darryl said sternly, getting up from the couch and walking over. So get your hands off her, and get the hell out of my face before I rearrange yours."

Brandon heard people around Darryl urging him to shut up and stop making himself into a bigger ass. He had just enough time to shove Chelsea against a nearby wall before the guy’s drunken fist connected with his eye. The angry punch he threw back knocked the wind out of the weaving, obviously drunk, and stoned Daryl. Not having size or weight in his favor, Brandon used Darryl’s momentary pain to his advantage as he shoved the guy to the floor. Putting a knee in Darryl’s back, Brandon grabbed him by his braids and yanked up his face until he could meet his gaze.

Now let’s try the question again. What the hell did you give her? Brandon demanded.

Shit—it was just a Valium. Thought it might relax her enough to unlock her legs, you know? Darryl exclaimed.

Brandon shoved Darryl’s face back to the floor. His eye was starting to hurt something fierce, but he had bigger problems to deal with. He looked up just as Sedrick, Rafe, and four other guys circled around the two of them.

"She’s not even eighteen, guys. Hell, I’m not