Rhythm by Marie Lipscomb

Chapter Eight

Finn

Smooth bastard. He’s kind of proud of himself as he picks out a melody on his acoustic guitar. It’s no masterpiece, but it sounds pretty enough.

Beth paints for him. She paints him. When she concentrates really hard, she gets an intense crease between her eyebrows, and he can’t help but notice her lips part a little each time she glances at him. He doesn’t dare hope she wants him as much as he wants her, and there’s no way in hell he’s going to make her uncomfortable when they’re trapped up a mountain together. He’d rather let her slip through his fingers than make her feel like she has to escape from his grasp.

But he aches for her. Burns for her.

It’s absurd. A couple of hours ago they were enemies, and now… now he’s sitting on the couch wearing nothing but a towel, playing love songs to her and buying her art.

How long is it since someone made him feel like this? How long since someone could wrap him around their little finger with so little effort. For all his brawn and bravado, he’s helpless. She’s beautiful, and soft, and she smells like shampoo and paint. She’s a sweet, stubborn queen, and he’ll gladly be her throne.

Concentrate.

He forces himself to breathe deeply, swallowing as his throat dries out. There’s every possibility she has a boyfriend, or a husband even. He knows nothing about her.

But there's harmony between them, and they both become creative in each other’s presence. She continues to paint while he plays. Their tiny corner of the vast, impossible universe is an unlikely oasis of peace in the storm.

When afternoon rolls by and she’s showing no signs of stopping her painting, he goes downstairs, wading through half a foot of water to his refrigerator, and takes out whatever food he can salvage. He takes the supplies up to her kitchen and puts together a couple of sandwiches for them, using her loaf of sourdough. She loves pickles, he learns, and hot sauce—almost as much as he does. They eat together, watching the rain pour from the roof onto the balcony.

It’s easy to forget the disaster scene below, to pretend their little sanctuary is the entire world. Beth sits at the corner of the couch, legs crossed beneath her as she balances the plate between her thighs.

“Can I see it yet?” He asks between mouthfuls.

She shakes her head and casts him a mischievous smile. “Nope.”

Their eyes linger on each other, and his face heats beneath her gaze. He’s the first to break eye contact.

When they’re done eating, he goes back to plucking his guitar. By the time the world beyond their haven is growing dark, he’s crafting new melodies, and some of them are definitely worth remembering. He pauses to jot them down on a page of blank sheet music. When he looks up, she’s staring at him, her brush loose in her grip.

“You can read music?”

Her voice catches him off guard. He’d almost forgotten her deep, silky tone. “Yeah.”

“You’re very talented.”

His chest swells a little. Nearly everyone he knows can read music, but he’ll take the compliment. “Takes one to know one.”

“You might not say that when you see the painting.”

He laughs quietly. He’s weirdly flattered she thinks of him as being this big, hulking beast, horns and all. “Is it time?”

She sucks in her bottom lip to hide her grin, and sends a bolt of electricity through his veins. Slowly, she inches the easel round, and reveals his portrait.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes, leaning forward on the couch until he’s perching on the edge of the cushion. His hand clamps over his mouth. No one has ever painted him before. Hell, has anyone even looked at him this way? He looks powerful, savage, badass, like some horned god of music and chaos.

“Is it okay?” she asks.

“Okay? Beth…” He stands, nearly forgetting the towel wrapped precariously around his hips. “You’re incredible.”

Sparks flow through his veins as she looks up at him, and the urge to kiss her becomes unbearable.

Beth

He likes it.

She’s pretty sure she’s glowing as he stares wide-eyed at the painting. Her fingers reach out reflexively, longing to touch him, to brush back the tousled wave of his hair, to feel the fluff covering his soft, heavy torso.

“Beth Barlow…” he laughs a little as he reads her signature. “You have a superhero name.”

He makes her smile.

She came to the mountain for silence, but perhaps what she needed was something to shake her up. Perhaps she needed to find him. Her body certainly thinks so, and her heart is quickly catching up to the idea.

The flutters in her stomach only grow more intense as he stands beside her, examining the painting, raising his big hands to touch it before realizing the paint is still wet. The warmth of his body pulses against her, carrying the scent of him; pine soap and the sharp scent of outdoors. The scent of the rain.

His shoulder is close, so close she would only have to lean forward a little to press her lips against it.

He shifts his head, ever so slightly toward her, and her breath hitches in her chest. He knows. Somehow, he knows she wants him. Heart hammering, she steps away.

“You still haven’t told me how much.” His voice is thick, husky. He walks over to the table and takes a sip of his whisky.

“I can’t take any money from you. It was meant to be for an exhibition, for charity. We’re trying to raise money for a community art center. It feels… I don’t know, it feels wrong making money from it.”

He nods slowly. “Alright, well if it’s for charity, double it.”

Crap. It would be easy to fall in love with him.