Page 3 of The Bad Boy’s Homecoming (The Southern Hart Brothers #2)
CHAPTER THREE
Missy
One Thing at a Time
A fter stirring her brushes in the paint thinner she gently wiped them clean, before setting each one out to the side to dry in their designated spots.
Her entire morning painting session had been ruined by her run-in with Levi Hart and the knowledge that Mrs. Hart might not want her to stay much longer if her grandson disapproved.
But if he was going to be staying there for more than a few nights, she knew she couldn’t stay too.
She didn’t like the idea of what people might say once they knew there was a man in the house.
She didn’t need any more drama. That was part of the reason she’d left school in Atlanta—the gossip had been stifling, and unbearable, even before it got really bad.
And it only took one internet search to know that Levi Hart was TROUBLE, all caps.
The man’s reputation was terrible with women, and his alpha-male outbursts on the field were like a soap opera for the fans.
There was even an allegation he’d broken a reporter’s camera.
She didn’t want to be linked to him or any drama.
“Do you think your grandson will stay long, Mrs. Hart? I could always move back in with Declan and the kids. I’ll still come out to help you each day.”
“I won’t hear another word of that. You need to be where your muse is, and we both know it’s this sunroom right here at Hart House.”
She smiled at how Mrs. Hart had dubbed her home some kind of oasis with magical artistic powers ever since Missy had arrived. She’d even had Missy paint a shingle that read Hart House in bold red letters, then had Dalton hang it out front.
“Maybe I’ll just head over to Declan’s for a few nights, help him with the boys and give you some family time then.”
“No thank you,” Mrs. Hart said and kept on knitting.
A low whistle and the scent of man made her spin and almost tip over the paint thinner.
“If this is how you paint when you’re annoyed, I need to see what you’re capable of when you’re—”
“Levi,” his gran said in warning.
“Happy,” Levi said and gave her a wink before he went back to looking at the large canvas still on her easel to dry.
He had one hand crossed over his chest, causing his shirt to stretch and pull over his muscular back, while his other arm was bent under his jaw as if he were in serious judgment of her work.
His bicep bulged, like he’d been carved from some tawny clay.
The black ink of his tattoos demanded attention, and she wondered which artist had drawn them for him.
The detail was delicate and seemed to all flow in some kind of theme she couldn’t make out: rope, arrow, waves, skull.
When he slowly spun toward her, he caught her studying him.
“What does this piece mean?” he asked boldly.
Mrs. Hart just nodded and kept on knitting.
“What does it say to you?” she countered, not sure she wanted to know.
“Honestly?”
She nodded but didn’t step closer.
“Pain, someone cut you down to the bone.”
Her breath caught in her throat and her eyes burned.
“Interesting.” Her voice was husky with emotion. She took a step closer as she cleared the old memories. “Novice interpretations of art are often colored by the emotions we’re holding on to, versus a piece being viewed technically.”
“Are you saying I’m wrong?” he challenged but looked back at the piece.
“I’m saying, someone may have cut you to the bone and you’re seeing that reflected in this piece.”
“Should everyone find the same meaning in every piece of art?”
“Not at all. I much prefer someone finding the value in a piece I create based on the feeling it gives them. I think we need to love the art we’re drawn to, and that is always personal.”
“And what would you charge someone for their feelings for a piece this size?”
His eyes glinted with a challenge. Would she overprice him or undervalue her own work?
“He can afford it, honey—no family discounts,” his gran said, finally setting down her knitting.
“Thirty, and I provide custom framing.”
“Thirty thousand?” he asked. “A piece that took you a few hours and, what, a few hundred dollars’ worth of supplies?”
“How much do you make for a few hours of work?”
He nodded and the right side of his mouth pulled up to show off a deep dimple she hadn’t noticed earlier.
“But this one isn’t for sale,” she said. Walking closer to the piece, she scanned the waves of yellow and red that looked like two orbs fighting some type of battle. “Nope, I think I’ll keep this one.”
“I’ll give you forty thousand for it,” he countered.
“Not everyone has a price, Mr. Hart.” She turned and tossed the rag she’d been twisting onto her paint stand. “I’m taking a break for the rest of the day, Mrs. Hart. Did you want to go into town with me?”
“No thank you, honey, you take your time. Tell your brother I said hello.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She didn’t risk another look at Levi. He was too gorgeous and saw right through her walls. She needed to avoid him.