The light on her porch was perfect. Diffused but bright. The temperature at six thirty had cooled down just enough to be perfectlycomfortable. Just in case it was true that an artist’s mood seeped through the paint and onto the canvas? Well, her happinessreservoir was finally back up at a level not seen since before leaving grad school. Every possible condition was perfect.
This one would be right. Would be good enough. Would be perfect. Then she could send it to Miriam Newberry as an apology.
It wouldn’t be enough of a gesture. But it was all Sierra could think of to do. She dabbed a tiny bit of Winsor Lemon on herbrush. Swirled it with Winsor Yellow on the palette and hoped that it would finally match the perfect yellow of Mrs. Newberry’sprized orchid.
Flynn ran to a stop right in front of her.
Sierra yelped, dropped her brush and was pretty sure her heart had skipped a beat or three in surprise. He took the threestairs up to the porch in one leap. Flynn’s arms were outstretched, his face twisted in anger.
She lunged off her chair, earbuds slipping out. Except her feet got twisted in the rungs at the bottom and the whole thingtipped over. Sierra barely managed to stay upright. But it only took two steps to come up against the porch railing on twosides and the house wall on the other.
She was stuck. Scared.
This time, Sierra couldn’t run.
So she lifted her wooden palette—still miraculously in her left hand—and tried to bash the side of his head.
Flynn simultaneously grabbed it and sent it flying like a Frisbee. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Why were you coming at me?” Why was he still looming over her? Sierra’s teeth clenched so tightly her jaw ached. Her stomachknotted up, almost cutting off her diaphragm from moving her lungs.
“You looked surprised. Like I’d snuck up on you. I was trying to hug you to apologize.”
Oh, crap. He’d been doing the sweet, normal boyfriend thing and her anxiety had blown it totally out of proportion. It made sense.
But the knee-jerk cascade of fear wasn’t easy to shake.
“You looked so angry,” she murmured. Her arms drew around her sides into a hug. Sierra needed the comfort, even if it wasjust from herself. The edge of the rail dug into her lower back, but Flynn still wasn’t giving her an inch of space. “Youscared me.”
His jaw dropped open. Flynn took two steps back, all the way to the opposite railing. Then he put up his hands, palms out.“Sierra. Look at me. I’m not going to hurt you.”
After two deep breaths, Sierra calmed enough to process the pieces. Flynn might be mad, but it wasn’t directed at her. Hehadn’t tried to attack her. This was a full-blown panic attack on her part over nothing. Her arms slid down her sides.
In a very small voice, she said, “Okay.”
“Can I come closer?”
“Yes.”
Flynn shuffled back across the narrow space. When she didn’t flinch this time, he put his arms around her waist. It felt reassuring.Comforting.
Who was she kidding? It felt amazing. Better than crawling under an electric blanket during a snowstorm. Sierra’s hands movedup to rest on his chest. The feel of it moving up and down with each breath, the quiet thump of his heart, also soothed her.Beat back the panic one long, slow breath at a time.
“Sierra.” Flynn rested his cheek on the top of her head. “Sweetness, don’t you know that you don’t ever need to be scaredof me? I’ll never hurt you. I’ll do everything in my power to protect you.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep. But I appreciate the thought behind it.”
“Sweetness.” In one fluid motion, Flynn picked her up and set her down on the top step. He settled next to her, lightly rubbingher back in slow circles. “What happened to you? Why are you reacting like this?”
There really was no better segue. If she was ever going to tell him, this was the moment.
Sierra had spent the last three days waffling about sharing her secret with Flynn after her initial, hasty decision to doso. Bottom line? It was a selfish impulse. To burden him with that knowledge. Was it fair of her to put that on him?
No. Not exactly. But it was a lot less fair to keep lying to him. There had to be trust between them. There couldn’t be any more forward motion without trust. Withoutadmitting who she really was. Why she was out here.
Why she’d tried to clock him with a piece of wood just for trying to hug her.
Clearly, there wasn’t a choice to be made. They’d passed that point.
Flynn had to know.
“It’s kind of a long story. And you may not like me as much by the time I’m finished.”
“Not possible.”
It was nice that he said it. Sierra wasn’t so sure she believed his easy reassurance, though. And she cannonballed into thestory. “When I was little, a teacher gave me a box of crayons as a reward for something. It was the best gift of my life.I drew all the time. I’d draw in the dirt with sticks. I’d draw in the snow.”
Flynn bumped her shoulder with his. “Also with sticks?”
“What can I say? They’re an all-season tool. When I drew, when I painted, I could make beautiful things. Different worlds,different settings. Places that were prettier, happier, nicer. Art was my escape from living in foster care. Which, some ofthe time, was harsh. Not pretty at all. Crowded and dirty, full of yelling and fighting.”
“God, it sounds awful.”
“Not everyone fosters because of their love of kids. Lots of people just do it for the money. Money they’re in no hurry tospend on their foster children. I landed in a few good situations. They never lasted, though.”
His hand tightened to knead the suddenly rock-hard muscles along the ridge of her
