But.
You have to look closer. You have to squint your eyes as you walk toward him and make out all the pretty colors. Like the winter flush on his high cheekbones, the warm golden brown of his hair. The red of his lips.
And then there are his eyes, that are on me as he walks toward me as well.
Navy blue.
See? He’s colorful.
You just have to look at him.
And I have.
A lot.
Especially here from my spot where I draw him every morning and where I’m back this Monday morning as well. Although I have to say that it doesn’t feel like a typical Monday morning, and it’s not only the snow.
And I express that to him when we reach each other.
“Hey, oh my God,” I say, gasping and putting a hand on my chest in mock surprise. “Haven’t we met somewhere before?”
He stares at me for a second, something playing at the corners of his eyes. Something like amusement. “Have we?”
I bite my lip to stop my smile as I say, “Uh-huh. I definitely think we’ve met before.”
That amusement increases as he rumbles, “I don’t know. You’re going to have to remind me.”
I narrow my eyes at him and that amusement expands even more to cover the side of his lips, and they twitch as I tell him, “Well from what I remember, I saw you on the side of the road, wearing the biggest silver watch known to mankind, trying to help a damsel in distress like about a year and a half ago.”
His eyes flick back and forth between mine, amusement still lingering on his features, before he protests, “It’s not the biggest silver watch known to mankind.”
I chuckle. “It so is. Have you looked at that thing?”
“And she wasn’t a damsel in distress.”
“What?”
He glances over my calf-length magenta parka with yellow flowers. “I don’t save damsels in distress, remember?” He lifts his crisp blue eyes. “She was a wallflower. A wallflower in a yellow ball gown.”
God.
God.
Him saying ball gown in that deep voice of his makes something move in my stomach. The fact that he remembers me, that he remembered me all this time, makes something move in my stomach too and all I can do is shake my head at him. “You’re a jerk.”
Then his mouth lifts in a half smile and I forget to breathe. “And here I thought I was wonderful.”
He smiled.
Smiled.
Even though it was only one fourth of a smile — a super fucking glorious one at that, that made him even more gorgeous than he already is —I’ll take it.
I’ll take it and I’ll run with it.
Before I can pull myself together and comment on it, he jerks his chin at me. “Flowers, huh.”
Heart pounding in my chest, I look down at my parka. “Yeah.”
“You draw them on yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Because I’m guessing you’re also into…” He tilts his head to the side in thought. “Clothes decorating. Or whatever the fuck that’s called.”
“Close. Fabric painting. And yes, I’m into all sorts of decorating.” Before he can say something else, I blurt out, “I’m also into your smiles.” When he frowns lightly, I jerk my chin at him, his amused lips. “You should do that more often.”
Now it’s his turn to shake his head at me, his lips still pulled up in that quarter of a smile.
But before he can say anything, I ask him the thing I meant to ask him as soon as I saw him. “Can I see your house?”
That clears off his amusement and makes him frown. “What?”
I’m slightly sad about that, about his tiny smile vanishing, but it’s okay.
I’m going to give him more smiles.
I just need to get this done first. So I clear my throat as I explain, “I mean, can I draw you in your house? This Saturday.”
“In my house.”
“Yes. In your personal space I mean. I think it will help me capture the essence. Of you.”
He studies me in silence for a beat or two. “It’s for your college applications, correct?”
I hesitate for a second as I tug at the strap of my messenger bag that holds all my art supplies and my sketchpad. “Yes.”
“Fine.”
“What?”
“You can capture it. The essence.” He takes a pause before saying, “Of me.”
“I can?”
“That’s what I said.”
I shake my head in wonder. That was easy. And here I was tossing and turning all night, trying to imagine all the scenarios where he’d say no and then I’d have to convince him somehow.
Smiling, I say, “Thank you. It’ll be great. You’ll see.”
He hums at that. “What’s your favorite food?”
His out-of-the-blue question throws me a little. “What?”
He shifts on his feet as if slightly uncomfortable. “What do you like to eat?”
I draw back. “What do I like to eat?”
“Is that a hard question?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Uh, I guess Mexican. I like Mexican food.”