Page 8 of Summer Fling (The Kingston Brothers #5)

Chapter Six

Blake

I 'd fallen into a nice rhythm with Lilliana and Dalton. He'd get up early, leaving before Lilliana was even awake. And I enjoyed our lazy mornings where we'd read books. Then I'd cook her cheesy eggs, and we'd get dressed.

I'd started painting with her outside on the patio. It was too beautiful to paint inside.

Lilliana preferred using the sponge on the canvas, probably because it was easier for her to hold. When she was done with covering the canvas with paint, I set her up with finger paints on the patio so I could paint for a while.

I'd done the background first, the sky, which was different shades of blues, and today I was going to add the palm trees. These were more difficult, and I knew I'd have to paint many versions before I was happy with the result.

I snapped pictures of my day with Lilliana and sent them to Dalton. I figured he'd enjoy the updates.

After her nap, we went to the park or the library. When we returned, Dalton was usually home. He'd jump in the shower and then cook us dinner while I entertained Lilliana.

It felt very domestic. I'd lived with a lot of different families over the years, but I usually kept a distinct line between us. When the parents were home, I retreated to my room. But with Dalton, I didn't mind watching Lilliana so he could cook, and he always invited me to dinner.

He was the only single parent I'd ever worked for, so I convinced myself it was okay that it was different from my other jobs.

Each day, I grew more attracted to him. There was something about a single dad caring for their child.

Dalton chopped vegetables at the island counter while I played with a tea set on the table with Lilliana. "I want to start working on your bookshelves this weekend."

"You don't need to build me anything." My time here was supposed to be temporary after all.

"I like to build things, and I don't always get to do that at work. Let me do this. Besides, we could use more shelves here. I haven't bought much furniture."

Lilliana lifted her teacup to my lips, and I pretended to drink from it. "Lilliana's been working on some paintings. I thought we could hang a shelf where we could lean her canvases against the wall. That way, we could easily change them out. Maybe in the playroom?"

Dalton had turned the dining room into a playroom for her since he didn't have a table.

"What were you thinking?" he asked, genuinely interested in my suggestion.

I pulled up the picture of what I was thinking about and showed it to him. This close, he smelled like soap, and his hair was slightly damp, curling over his temples.

"I can make that."

"You can?" I asked as he continued to move around the kitchen.

"Yeah, that's easy enough. We should make it long. I have a feeling we're going to need a lot of space for paintings." He pulled out a package of ground meat and put it into a pan on the stove to cook.

"We've been painting every day." I tensed, wondering if he was going to say it was too much.

Dalton turned to look at me. "I can imagine that it's good for kids to paint."

"There're all kinds of studies about the effects of art therapy. It helps people process emotions, reduce stress, and improve self-esteem."

He glanced up at me. "You seem to enjoy art. Why did you go into psychology?"

"I wanted to help people, and I'm fascinated by human behavior. I enjoy painting, but everyone knows there's no career in the art world," I said, repeating something my parents had drilled into me.

"Who says that there's no career in art?"

I moved back over to Lilliana who was playing with a wooden spoon and a pot. "Everyone says it. You've heard of the phrase the starving artist ?"

"Of course. But that doesn't mean it's true. My brother Brady makes money filming a video game online. I don't get it. But a lot of people love it."

"That's different. Streaming online is a thing right now.

But selling artwork? Probably not unless you run in elite circles where they compete to possess the most expensive art for the walls of their mansions.

" I made my voice sound flippant even as my heart rate increased.

I was sharing my love of art with him, and I was worried he wouldn't get it.

"You should spend some time checking out art galleries. Tourists love to buy beachscapes to remind them of their visit to the island."

"I wouldn't sell my work. It's more about the process than earning money from it.

" I was more interested in the therapy piece.

I'd seen firsthand how it calmed kids under my care.

It helped them feel more relaxed and like less of a perfectionist. It was the perfect avenue to teach a growth mindset.

You can practice and get better, not giving up.

The problem was that families who had perfectionist tendencies wouldn't even allow the paint in their house.

Dalton shrugged. "It's up to you. But you seem to love it."

I sighed. "I do."

His eyes flashed with interest. "Then you should do something with it."

"Not everything has to be a business. Sometimes it's just a hobby. Like you making things out of wood in your spare time. It makes you feel good to create."

He nodded. "You're probably right."

"The most I'd ever do is give a painting as a gift, and I'm nowhere near good enough for that. I can't even paint a palm tree." I could draw one, but painting it was more difficult.

"I liked the colors on that canvas you're working on now."

"I'm good at blending colors for skies and water." That was my specialty, but who'd want a painting of just the sky and water? Everyone wanted the added details: the trees, sand, waves.

"I think if you created a bigger one, it would look great above the fireplace."

I glanced at the bare wall above the mantle. "You'd put it there?"

"I love the colors. It's very soothing."

I'd thought a lot about how it felt to paint but not what an observer might experience looking at one of my paintings. It was an interesting concept. Could my paintings bring people joy? An appreciation for the arts or even nature?

He'd cooked the veggies and the meat, combining them with fresh salsa into one pot. Then he turned off the burner. "We can eat this in a burrito."

I grabbed the tortilla wraps from the pantry and watched while he wrapped the burritos, then cooked them on the stove.

At my questioning look, he said, "They taste better this way."

I shrugged. "If you say so. I don't cook much since I'd only be doing it for me."

"I saved meat and veggies for Lilliana, if you want to serve her while the burritos toast."

"Of course," I said, taking the small bowls of chopped food over to the high chair. I removed the tea set so it wouldn't get dirty and put several pieces of meat and veggies in front of her. She used her fingers to pop one tiny, cooked carrot into her mouth.

"She loves carrots," Dalton said.

"She's a good eater." I never had to coax her to eat a snack.

I'd come to enjoy watching her eat. It was messy at times, but that was part of the process.

Lilliana was growing and developing, experiencing different textures and sensations on her hands and in her mouth. This was an important time for her.

"She's always been a good eater. Have you had kids that weren't?"

"Oh, yeah. Some only eat mac and cheese and chicken nuggets. I'd be lucky if I could get them to eat those apple sauce packets. Others love fruit but won't eat vegetables. But Lilliana eats everything I've given her."

"She's an adventurous eater like me," Dalton said proudly.

It felt like he was finally getting a chance to be a father, and he was enjoying it.

As he should. I didn't like Oakley for keeping Lilliana from him or playing games with him.

It didn't feel like a good situation. We hadn't seen her since that first night, and I was enjoying getting to know Lilliana without her interference.

I grabbed the strawberries I'd cut up after her nap and added them to her spread, and she squealed. "She loves strawberries."

"Who doesn't?" Dalton said as he brought two plates to the table, setting one down in front of me.

"You want anything to drink?"

"I have water," I said nodding toward my bottle that was always nearby.

He picked it up, testing the weight, and then took it to the fridge to refill it.

"You don't have to do that," I said when he returned.

"I don't mind," he said simply.

Lilliana lifted her hands as if she wanted to be picked up, and Dalton released her from her chair and sat her in his lap.

I stood ready to clean off her tray, pushing the bowls of food toward Dalton so he could feed her. It was hard to eat when you had a child in your lap, but Dalton seemed to enjoy it. When I finished cleaning the tray, I sat to eat my dinner but couldn't look away from the sweet picture they made.

Lilliana was balanced on one of his thighs, her hands touching his beard, his food, everything. But he didn't get annoyed with her. He murmured to her in a low tone. "You want my burrito?"

"Burt," Lilliana said sweetly.

"I can cut a bit up into tiny pieces for her. That way she can eat the same food as us." I'd read somewhere that was a good way for kids to enjoy the foods we did. Just serve them the same thing in smaller portions.

"You don't have to do that."

"You have your hands full," I said as I went to the counter with my plate, cutting a third of the burrito off and into tiny pieces. I placed it on a small plate and set it in front of them.

Lilliana immediately took a piece and lifted it to her mouth, then at the last second, handed it to her father.

My heart skipped a beat when he ate it from her fingers. "You two are so sweet together."

Our eyes met, and for a second, I couldn't look away. Then the doorbell rang. I stood, wanting to break out of whatever spell he'd put on me. "I'll get it."

I opened the door without looking out the window, not sure who'd be here this late, but thinking it had to be family.