Page 82 of The Other Side of Paradise

“Okay,” I said, my voice strangled and too high trying to sound cheerful. Yikes.

She followed me to my easel, and I saw her expression soften as a smile spilled out over thoselipsthat were so agonizingly pretty, and she laughed softly. “Oh, god, you’re so annoying,” she said. “You’re way better than I am. Over here gushing about how skilled I am…”

“I-I wouldn’t go that far,” I managed awkwardly.

“It looks so alive. Like it could jump right off the page.”

“It can’t, as it turns out.” I needed to stop talking. She laughed.

“Shame. I’m sure you’d love to be sandwiched between two of me.”

Uh… huh? I mean, that sounded hot, but. “Guess we have to settle for an open-faced sandwich.”

She laughed. “Are you asking to get on top of me?”

I had so much confidence, and then she said something like that, and poof, all gone. I flushed furiously. “I’m asking… to… if you… want to… uh, do you want to paint? On these sketches? Or just paint in general? Or do more sketches? Or, um… do you want food? I can… I can get food.”

“I think I’d love to try painting. That sounds fun.”

“O-okay. Oh, god, I need to get you an apron or something or we’ll ruin your nice dress.”

She winked. “Or I could just take the dress off.”

“Or—I mean, I guess you could,” I said with a very nervous, very fake laugh. “But in lieu of that, I should—”

She took her dress off. I made a very unsexy noise that probably sounded more like I was in pain, looking with wide eyes frozen mid-pose as she tugged it up over her head, slipped it off and folded it up quickly before she put it on the shelf behind her.

“There,” she said, turning back to me, wearing a delicate white bra and matching pair of underwear, and that was, well, that was all. “No paint stains to worry about.”

“Uh. Wow. I mean, um… right. Paint stains. Yeah.”

She winked. “And now you get to study the human figure more closely.”

“Ha. Right. Yes. Wow. Jesus Christ, you’re so hot. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.” I scratched my head, forcing a fakelaugh. “Should I, uh, take mine off, too? You know, let you study—”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Yes?”

“Take it off, please.”

“Oh… okay. Um. Are you joking right now?”

She tugged on the front of my overalls. “Do you wantmeto take it off you?”

Yes. “I can, uh, I can do it.” What the fuck was happening? I had no clue. I didn’t care. I fumbled with my heart in my mouth, face burning, as I unbuttoned my overalls, dropping them down to my baggy white painter’s shirt and underwear, and I couldn’t quite look her in the eye as I fussed with the hem of my shirt before, steeling myself and doing it all in one motion, I tugged it up over my head, standing there holding the shirt and the overalls awkwardly like it was my first time holding something. Stella took them from me, and my chest ached. My lower body ached, too, being half-naked in my home together with Stella.

“You’re so pretty.” She set the clothes down on the shelf next to her dress, and she turned back to me, tracing her fingertips down my arm, and my heart was beating so hard, so fast, I felt like I’d pass out. “Can we paint now?”

“Yes… of course. Yeah.”

Painting Stella half-naked. While half-naked. Right. Yes. I could do that. I would be perfectly normal and casual about it.

Chapter 22

Stella

Painting was therapeutic. I didn’t know how to do it—I was riding the high of Allison complimenting my sketch, and I wasn’t bad with lines, but painting was not my field.