I bite my lower lip. “That’s still three weeks away.”
“Yeah, but did you want to spend it together?”
I glance over at him, my stomach flipping, but I manage to tease, “Ask me again at the end of this date. If it doesn’t go well, that could get awkward.”
His deep chuckle fills the car. “Fair enough.”
As we drive, Corbin tells me about his first week of self-employment. Apparently, many clients only stayed with his dad’s firm because of him, and now that he’s a free agent—one who never signed a non-compete—clients areflockingto him.
“I never knew you wanted to work for yourself,” I say as we pull up to a street lined with rustic buildings and twinkling lights.
Corbin parks, then steps out at the same time I do. “I’ve wanted to for a while. I just needed the push, I guess.”
I slip my hand into his as I lead him toward a white-washed brick building with a dark wood door. “Your dad makes things miserable, doesn’t he?”
“Always has.”
I stop at the entrance, looking up at him with a grin. “We’re about to find out just how well you can paint, Corbin.”
He huffs a laugh. “What does that mean?”
Instead of answering, I push open the door, and we’re instantly greeted by the warm hum of voices, the scent of fresh paint, and the clinking of wine glasses.
Corbin chuckles lowly. “We’re painting.”
“Not just any painting,” I say, stepping in front of him and grabbing his other hand. “We’redrinkingand painting.”
A slow, amused smile spreads across his lips. “Okay.”
I lead him through the crowd, feeling a little giddy at the idea of doing something creative with him. When I signed us up for the 6:30 slot tonight, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but now that we’re here, it feels…right.
“Jules!” A familiar voice calls out. Holly, a frequent customer at the coffee shop, waves from the front of the studio.
I smile. “Hey, Holly.”
She glances between Corbin and me.
“This is my, uh… Corbin,” I say, suddenly unsure of how to introduce him.
Holly’s eyes flicker with recognition. “Oh! Tate’s dad.”
Corbin grins and shakes her hand.
“Well, grab a glass of wine,” Holly says. “We’re starting in about five minutes.”
Corbin raises a brow at me as I pull him toward the bar. “Drinking and painting, huh?”
I smirk. “Scared?”
He leans in, voice low and teasing. “Of the painting? No. But watching you drink wine could getveryinteresting.”
My cheeks warm, but I don’t look away. Yeah. Thisdefinitelyfeels right.
Corbin isnotgreat at painting. In fact, he should really stick to wearing business suits, making high-stakes deals, and taking important conference calls. Basically, anythingbutart.
“Why does your turkey’s head look like a…” I tilt my head, studying his canvas, trying to figure out what’s sooffabout the shape.
Holly stops behind us and doesn’t miss a beat. “A penis?”
