But that day at the park, there was just something about him … something compelling that she couldn’t forget. And it wasn’t just that he was handsome, either. She’d been so giddy when he messaged her, and she quickly invited him over.
“I like your plants,” Cross murmured as he touched a large monstera plant she had in the corner of her studio by her desk. “I noticed you had a lot, especially in your living room.”
“Yeah, my mom loved plants,” she said. “Orchids especially. They’re difficult to keep alive, but I love caring for them. It kind of makes me feel like … well …”
“What?”
She blew a breath to push away a lock of hair that had fallen on her forehead. “It kinda feels like she’s here with me, you know?”
“I think I understand.” He remained quiet, but looked out the window.
After a few seconds of silence from him, she went back to her painting. As she always did, she was lost in her own world while she painted. However, she didn’t ignore him completely. His presence was something she couldn’t ignore, and she could feel it the entire time he was there. It was not demanding, but more like a steady pulse in the background.
Finally, she was satisfied with the progress for today. When she glanced at her clock, she realized that hours had passed since he arrived. Her music playlist had cycled back and it was now playing the second song on her list—the prelude from Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 in G major. It was another favorite piece. She loved how it started with those quick arpeggios with the open G note grounding the entire section. “You must be so bored. You’ve been standing there for hours.”
“Not at all,” he said quickly, then began to walk towards her. “I just hope I’m not distracting you.”
“Well, you kinda are,” she said.
“Me? Distracting?” His brows drew together. “Why?”
“Oh Lord,” she muttered under her breath. The way he seemed so unconscious of his attractiveness was cute. “Has anyone ever told you, you look like a Viking?”
“It makes sense. My father was from a small village in Norway.”
She put her paint brush down and stood up. “Really?”
He nodded. “Yes. He was born near some fjords, actually. But he … moved away when he was small and went to live … elsewhere.”
As the cello piece began to shift to the dominant D chord, her finger tapped on her chin. “Hmmm … I can definitely see you as a Viking from old times. Actually, I was thinking I could paint you by the fjords.”
“Oh?” A blond brow shot up. “Would you paint me as a warrior, then?”
She thought for a moment, tracing her gaze down from his face all the way to his feet and back up again. My, he was so tall. And how did he come to stand so close to her? “No, I don’t think so. I could see you as … a farmer maybe?”
“A farmer?”
“Yes. A warrior, no.” The cello’s strings deepened even further, getting lower and her lips twisted in distaste. “I couldn’t imagine you carrying an axe and pillaging villages and … you know, the other stuff that Vikings supposedly did.” No, definitely not. Cross seemed so gentle and kind.
“I suppose not.” He stood next to her, looking at the canvas. “You really are talented. This landscape … it seems to come alive. How is it that you can capture the sunset so well? It’s like I’m looking at the sky, and not at a canvas and paint.”
“I … thank you.” Those ocean-colored eyes held her gaze, and she couldn’t turn away.
“Sabrina …” He reached over to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Air caught in her throat as she waited for him to pull his hand back, but he didn’t. Instead his fingers dug into her nape and his thumb touched her cheek. Her heartbeat swung back and forth, following the rhythm of the bariolage passage in the latter part of the cello suite prelude. Her knees weakened as he leaned down and touched his lips to hers in a soft kiss.
He pulled back, his mouth barely hovering over hers. A breath escaped her, and he swooped in again. This time, his other hand came up to caress her jaw. Both hands cupped the sides of her face preventing her from moving; not that she wanted to. Oh, no, it felt like she’d been waiting for this moment forever, and it was oh so worth it. His mouth moved over hers in a gentle caress, teasing and coaxing her to open for him. A thrill of desire shot through her when his tongue licked against the seam of her mouth …
“Sabrina! Sabrina!”
Strong hands gripped her arms and she felt herself being shaken gently.
She sucked in a breath. “Oh.” After a few blinks, her vision came back into focus. The continuing notes of the prelude hummed through the speaker as the cello went up the chromatic scale, returning to the G major chord and finally resolved.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” Cross asked, concern marring his face.
“I remember,” she croaked. “I don’t know how …” She braced herself on the table with her sweaty palms.
“Remember what?”
“Painting in my studio …” She took another deep breath, taking in as much air as she could. “You … that first day … we …” Her fingers touched her lips. She could still remember the way he tasted. It was like her lips were still swollen. Oh, it had felt so real. Maybe because it was real and it did happen. Slowly, she looked up at him. “We kissed. That day.”
An inscrutable look flashed across his face. “Sabrina …”
“You didn’t answer me when I asked if we were more than friends. I thought …” A heat coursed through her body as more memories flashed through her mind. His large,
