You Are Mine Little Sister (by Syra Tucker) novel Chapter 189

"N—No. Not at all."

I pasted on a real smile—shaky but real—and made my way into the seat.

It smelt like him, and in a weird way, it felt good.

I closed my eyes, breathing in, trying to calm the war fighting to rise in my head. I inhaled the scent of him and herded my thoughts toward the bright pages: my bookstore customer: the first man I rode a bus with; nice Dominic, the one everyone liked.

You'll be fine, Rali. He isn't dangerous.

"You okay?" he asked as he got in beside me.

I hadn't meant to look into his eyes, but I did and got hooked instantly. Those cold gray eyes sure knew how to do something to the mind.

"Yeah," I breathed, tearing my gaze and looking out the window.

We pulled into the road. With every turn, the panic loosened a notch; it became more evident that I was safe in the car. See, Rali? He didn't bite you. It's completely safe.

'Not all men are evil.'

...

This might have been the first Christmas I remembered, but it already felt like the best one I'd ever had.

By evening, my apron was already covered with streaks of red, splashes of blue, multiple dots of green right above my pocket. But none of that mattered. I was determined to beat the man across from me.

Strings of fairy lights ran across the ceiling like a handmade sky, and the faint scent of cinnamon mixed with acrylic and turpentine. Brushes clinked in jars, laughter spilled from tables, and a playlist of soft Christmas jazz danced smoothly through the air like snowflakes that refused to melt.

I threw another sideways glance at Dominic. He looked so focused, sleeves rolled up, a faint smudge of graphite across his wrist.

People around us chuckled, whispering their bets. Somehow, our calm evening painting session had turned into a full-blown competition. And fifty bucks was on the line.

"I'm done!" I squealed, throwing my brush into the cup and clapping my hands like I'd just finished painting the Mona Lisa. "Told you I'd finish first."

He only smiled and didn't even look at me, his hand still moving on the board. I huffed.

My pride was at stake here. I'd challenged him, telling him I was sure I was a better artist. While I was recovering and going through therapy, drawing had been the major assignments my therapist gave to me. It became my favourite hobby.

So, I challenged Dominic to it, telling him I knew I could do better.

I'd thought of drawing him, but he was moving slightly and all, I knew it'd be difficult. Plus I wasn't ready to test my limits when money was at stake.

Finally, he put the brush down.

"Done?" I asked, tilting my head.

"Yeah." His eyes locked onto mine with the mischief that said, You know I'm beating you at this.

Applause rippled, followed by laughter, but I barely heard them.

It was just me and him, locked across the space between our easels. His gaze held mine while the air thickened with something that had nothing to do with paint or prize money.

.....

"When did you learn how to draw?" I asked, peeling the paint-stiff apron from my shoulders.

The crowd had dispersed and it was just me and him now.

"Since I was a boy," he supplied, stepping closer to me.

Oh, wow. I didn't stand any chance after all.

"That was quite—" I started to say and froze when his hand moved up to my face. He brushed my cheek with the pad of his fingers, a motion so calm it made my breath stutter and my heart begin a tentative climb.

He didn't stop, didn't meet the nervousness in my eyes. His hand just kept going as if he were sweeping a stray fleck of paint from a portrait. I felt the impulse to flinch and step back, but some braver little voice in me dared me to stay, and thank God I stayed.

"You had a stain on your cheek." He jutted his chin toward the place he'd just wiped. "Must be infuriating having all these stains and not winning."

Now that pulled a laugh from me. "You were just lucky, Dominic. That's all."