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hair behind my ear, but the strong beach breeze pulled the strands back out, tossing them about. I fought the wind, however, it won in the end. My hair was a mess of tangles.

Unlike yesterday, today felt like a true March afternoon.

The weekend sunshine must've been a fluke, or we jinxed the warm weather by pretending it was summer too early. Now cool dampness lingered in the air like the clouds were ready to burst. I hoped my feelings were wrong or else my belongings and I would be destroyed.

I held my sketchbook pages down with my forearm and sipped the coffee. My shift at the restaurant was painless today. I only had one morning class before and I figured I'd pick up an extra shift.

To be honest, I didn't hate my waitress job. The view from Ruby's Tavern was picture perfect. The establishment sat straight on the beachfront, with a tiny patio, occasional live music, and great coffee.

Not to mention, it was far enough from campus that I rarely served students. Instead, I served the early birds who tipped well. Well enough that I could afford to splurge on a new set of drawing pencils.

I'd yet to receive an email about the gallery job, so I hadn't put in my two weeks.

Scooting further down on my blanket, I nestled my toes in the sand.

I enjoyed watching people. Something was calming about the way they moved without hurrying. Some walked alone, some with their dogs, or with a partner.

Right on time, I watched an old couple amble down the shore. They held each other's hand like the past three Tuesdays. When they reached their usual spot, the man smiled toward his little lady as he let go of her and unfolded a blanket onto the sand. They sat together.

I flipped to the drawing I had been working on of them. All I had to finish was the ocean, so I disregarded the sketch for class and pushed myself to finish the piece.

Every so often, he would lean over and kiss her lips.

I wondered what it was like to experience love like that.

Love where you had a routine. Where you could grow old and still gaze at one another like you just met. My sister had found it and now had a baby on the way and I was beyond thrilled for her, but still wondered when I would experience anything of the sort.

Because with love comes pain.

I had seen it firsthand when my father passed away, resulting in my mother's heartbreak.

And I saw it again with my first relationship, which ended with lots of crying and a new definition of trust.

Exhaling, I finished the drawing and tore it from my sketchbook. I didn't bother sighing my name since it was just practice and packed up my belongings, shaking off the sand.

"Excuse me," I spoke. "I drew this for you."

The couple jumped but relaxed when they saw my sketchbook and paintbrushes peaking from my bag. The older woman hesitantly took the paper and gasped. Her wrinkles lifted as she thanked me. I nodded, then walked to my car—well, Leila's old car.

After stopping at my apartment to change out of my work clothes, I began my trek to the art building for round two of my project. Reva was still at work, so I had nothing better to do. I buzzed in and made a beeline for the damaged art room.

That familiar scent of homely wood, oil, and earth filled my nose and my muscles relaxed. There was something incredibly peaceful about being alone in an art studio, and I couldn't wait to get started.

My routine was the same: tying my apron, gathering supplies, choosing a playlist, and painting. Today's lucky pick was a curated Spotify list of every Twilight soundtrack. It wasn't my first time listening, oh no, more like my one-hundredth. But it still brought me immense joy and set the tone for the evening.

I mixed my colors and then held my brush in front of the canvas. Nerves toyed with my stomach, but I pushed them aside and made my first stroke.

Twenty minutes passed and I painted with ease.

Aside from my music, it was eerily silent. No baseball games, flying balls, or boys in tight pants, thank goodness. And for once, I could enjoy the sunset.

It would've been nice if I had the full window view, but from the section that wasn't broken, I stared at the light blues and pale pinks orate with a thin layer of clouds in the sky.

"Hearing Damage" by Thom Yorke blared in my ears. I wouldn't give Elijah any credit, but the fresh start benefited me. This painting was already ten times better than the damaged one and I was enjoying the process.

While mixing a new color, I sang, "You can do no wrong, in my eyes, in—"

My singing came to a halt when I felt a presence behind me.

Slowly, I turned around and threw my paintbrush when I saw Elijah standing at the door. "Jesus!" I shouted, tearing my headphones out. The brush landed on the floor with a wet thud and paint-splattered on the tiles.

"No, not Jesus. Elijah," he pointed at himself, humor lacing his voice. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

"What the hell were you trying to do? And why are you here?"

He looked down at his hands as if he forgot he was carrying a giant can of paint and hardware bag. He didn't answer my question, which caused more confusion to arise. What was that stuff for? Was he following me? His old white tee-shirt and sweatpants looked like he just rolled out of bed.

Widening my eyes and tilting my head forward, I waited for a response. He eventually got the hint. "Our coach is making us renovate the room for breaking the window. Anyway, I thought you said you volunteered on Fridays? It's a Tuesday."

"Us? Are more of you coming?" Tossing my head back, I groaned aloud at the thought of more boys bothering me. The one day I worked on my project, he showed up. I couldn't hide how annoyed I felt.

From now on, I needed to keep my thoughts to myself because someone in the universe was out to get me.

"No, they bailed. It's just me."

"Oh."

"I can come back another time," he said, his eyes softened.

Suddenly, I felt bad for my poor attitude.

Taking a deep breath, I collected myself, then stood to clean the mess of paint my brush made on the floor. "No, it's fine," I said. "Just do what you have to do or whatever." I didn't own the building and I wouldn't stop him from completing a task his coach asked him to do.

"You won't even know I'm here," he grinned. I rolled my eyes.

He dug his keys and wallet out of his pocket and his wallet fell to the floor with a thud. I looked over to see a wedding picture lying in the middle of the room.

The man in the photo appeared just like Elijah—the same dark-hued skin, keen cheekbones, and curls. However, when I glanced at the woman, I knew I was looking at his parents. He looked exactly like his mother. She was beautiful, wearing a traditional garment adorned with bright colors and her smile was so bright it made my lips curl up. But he shoved the photo back in his wallet before I had the chance to look any closer.

Luckily, the studio was large enough that he wasn't in my way. But I couldn't ignore the feeling that blossomed in my stomach from being alone in the same space as Elijah Preston.

Ignoring the feeling, I shoved one headphone back in my ear. My music roared to life again, and I squeezed more paint onto my pallet, watching him in my periphery. He set the paint can and bag on a desk, then rubbed the back of his head.

His footsteps thumped against the floor followed by the clicking of cabinets. My brows drew together, and I turned around to see what he was up to. He bounced from cabinet to closet, then back to other cabinets.

"Do you need something?" I asked.

"Where do they keep the cleaning supplies?"

I stood. "Follow."

"Wow, a personal tour guide from Van Gogh herself." His lips curled.

I didn't reply but kept walking. We crossed the breezeway toward the janitor's closet on the other side of the hall. I had made this walk a thousand times from all of those Fridays I spent cleaning the studio. I knew the building like the back of my hand.

Opening the door, I threw my hands up. "Here you go, everything you need is here."

I started back toward the room. Just when I situated myself at my easel, he reappeared.

"I still don't know your name," he said.

"You're distracting me."

"Multi-task better then."

I couldn't help but let out a hearty laugh.

I thought if I ignored him, maybe I wouldn't care so much about what he was thinking. Truth be told, his company made me nervous. The entire baseball team made me nervous, especially their best player. Who was—hypocritical to what I told Leila—undeniably attractive.

He even made baggy clothes look hot. I looked like a sack of dirty potatoes.

A moment passed before something brushed against my shoulder.

"Sadie," my name rolled off Elijah's tongue. I jumped, almost hitting his chin.

Gazing up, he hovered over my shoulder and followed his line of sight to the piece of tape secured on my easel, reading Sadie Garner. He was so close that I could smell his woodsy cologne. It wasn't overbearing, but enough to stimulate my senses.

"Ever heard of personal space?" I asked.

He smiled, and it sent warmth to my belly. From his proximity, I could see every line, dimple, and crease. What would he look like as a painting? I wondered. Stop it. Knock those thoughts from your head, Garner.

"I like the same Van Gogh better." He stepped away, resting his back against the sink.

"Gee, thanks." I faced him. "What did your coach want you to do in here?"

"Well, I can't fix windows, so I'm supposed to clean and give the walls a fresh coat of paint."

"That's a lot of work for a construction error they made."

He shrugged. "So, why are you here on a Tuesday night?"

He seriously didn't know that he destroyed my painting, did he? I crossed my legs and motioned to my art. "Your home run destroyed my midterm project. Now I'm starting over."

"Oh, fuck." He rubbed the back of his head. "So that's why you were so mad at me. I'm sorry."

I had to bite my cheek to stop myself from smiling at how nice his apology sounded. It made sense why he acted confused out of his mind that night. However, I don't think his teammates would've been as kind with their apologies. Their words, he hits where he hits, flashed in my brain.

"It's fine, I guess," I said, still giving him a hard time. Yet, from that sorrowful look in his eyes, I knew he was genuine. Turning back around, I resumed painting. He said nothing else and walked to the wall and began scrubbing. I hit play.

We worked simultaneously without talking.

Even amongst his silence, I couldn't shake his looming presence.

My eyes flickered to where he stood, and I watched him scrub the walls, dunking a sponge in a bucket then twisted it to remove the excess water. His arm veins protruded. Sweet baby Jesus, he could shatter something with that grip.

He brought the sponge to the wall, scrubbing hard. Droplets of soapy water rolled over the old wall paint, some splashing on his shirt but he continued scrubbing. It was strange seeing him up-close and talkative. Almost like I was watching a different person.

"Van Gogh," he said, snapping me from my daze. Shit, I didn't realize I was staring. Had he noticed?

"Wanna play your music out loud? It is too quiet in here."

"Uh, you wouldn't like it."

"Try me."

I stared down at Bella, Edward, and Jacob plastered on my home screen. I made it to the Eclipse soundtrack. Florence and the Machine were singing.

"Alright," I dragged the word out. My fingers hesitated before I yanked the headphones out of the port. The song echoed into the room.

Elijah watched me with strained eyes, then casually turned around and continued working. A smile tugged at my lips by his unbothered attitude.

I made significant progress with the painting tonight. The barebones were nearly finished, but I didn't think I could paint anymore. My eyelids felt like paperweights, and I hated driving when I was this tired. So, I carried my brushes to the sink and began cleaning.

When I turned around to get my art pallet, I saw Elijah standing at my easel. My hands went still. His face was closed and his hands were secured behind his back, and I watched his eyes scan my work from left to right. I couldn't read the emotion on his face. My forehead burned like it usually did when I was nervous.

A shallow breath left his throat. "You're fantastic at painting."

"Oh, thank you." I swallowed, fighting the automatic blush that crept into my cheeks. "That is definitely not my best work."

He turned to face me, his brown eyes bore into mine. "I haven't seen your other work, but I beg to differ."

Holy shit, was he flirting with me? I averted my eyes to the brushes in the sink. The colors seeped from the bristles, creating colorful swirls which disappeared down the drain. I wasn't a master at reading people or situations, but the way he stared made my heart palpate.

Disregarding his compliment, I said, "It's getting pretty late, so I'm going to head home."

"I should get going too." He released a long sigh and placed his hands on his hips, staring at the wall he had been scrubbing. "I got nowhere today."

"Some days it's like that," I laughed and asked, "Will you pause the music for me?"

My hands were wet, but instant regret flooded my body when his eyes rolled. "The Twilight soundtrack? Are you kidding me?" He made an exasperated sound. "You're killing me, Van Gogh."

I quickly dried my hands and pried my phone from his grasp. "For your information, it's a great soundtrack, and you didn't complain until now."

"I didn't complain because I was being nice," he corrected.

"That didn't last long."

He tilted his head, doe-eyed. That look probably worked on most girls, but not me. "Come on, I'm a nice guy."

"Nice guys don't have to say they're a nice guy," I retorted, untying my apron. I could tell Elijah wasn't a mean guy, truthfully he seemed like one of the nicest on the team, but I still wanted nothing to do with him. Messing around with frat boys was one thing—they held no real social status other than throwing fun parties.

The baseball boys were different. All eyes were on them: the students, administration, recruiters, and when their games were on TV, the world. I did not want to be a part of that social circle.

Even if I wanted to, I didn't fit in. I barely knew anything about baseball besides the fact guys hit balls and ran in circles.

After setting my art on the drying rack, I tossed my bag over my shoulder. Elijah was scrambling to tidy his mess when I simply said, "See you around." Then left him in the room.

Minutes later, while my sandals reverberated through the staircase, he yelled from behind me. "You don't think I'm a nice guy?" He sounded out of breath when he caught up.

"I never said that."

"You implied it, though," he said. "Jesus, you walk fast."

"Can't keep up?" I teased, as we pushed through the exit into the parking lot.

A chill rippled down my spine and I shivered. The temperature had dropped since this morning, causing my toes to curl in my sandals. I kept a steady pace to my car, with Elijah still hot on my heels.

Pulling the door open, I climbed in and set my bag on the passenger seat. I was about to yank the door shut when Elijah's hand shot out to stop me. He gripped the doorframe, peering down to where I sat in the driver's seat. The street lights illuminated his face, which stared at me raptly.

"I could've crushed your fingers!" I motioned to his big hand.

He shrugged. "You wouldn't have. Did I do something to make you think I'm not nice?"

Curt laughter flowed from me. I must've wounded his ego with that statement. "I already told you, I never said you weren't a nice guy."

"I don't believe you."

I blinked, taken aback. "I don't know you."

Slight relief settled over his face. "Understandable."

"Then why do you care so much about what I—a stranger—think of you?" I asked.

An awkward silence fell between us, so I ignited my engine and said, "Goodnight, Elijah."

"I'll prove you wrong."

I laughed and he finally let go, closing my door.

I put my car in drive and pulled out of the parking lot. Looking in my rearview mirror, I saw him standing in the same spot glowing dark red from my tail lights. When I turned the corner, he was out of sight.

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