Sweet Talking Man

His soft laugh only increased her awareness of him. Something in her longed to lean back and place her head in the crook of his neck. Wait, had she just purred That’s what I like to hear? Jesus. What had she been—

“Leif?”

The red-lipstick-wearing middle-aged haystack waved her hand. “I need a little help over here.”

The woman asked for his help the same way a woman might ask a man to slip off his boxers and mount her.

But maybe Abigail’s imagination hadn’t punched the time clock. She glanced around, realization dawning on her. The whole class was filled with women. Not a hairy chest in sight.

Right.

She felt as if she’d been sucked into the Leif Lively fan club. Haystack would likely run for secretary. Birdie might go for treasurer. The kid was good with money, and firmly entrenched in the belief that Leif was the sun, moon and stars—all wrapped up with a bow.

But even though Leif looked mighty fine in his worn blue jeans and waffle T-shirt that left little to the imagination, Abigail had to remind herself that he was the David Lee Roth of Magnolia Bend. “Just a Gigolo.” “The Ice Cream Man.” A “love ’em and leave ’em” sort, with his laid-back charm and sexy blue eyes. She had no business wanting to take a lick from Leif’s ice-cream cone.

She needed to remember who she was—a mother, a business owner, a crappy art student. A woman who should leave ice cream well enough alone.

She renewed her efforts to draw an apple, as a new Van Halen song became an earworm—“Hot for Teacher.”

* * *

LEIF CAREFULLY HELPED Peggy Breaux correct the curve of the pear she’d drawn on her page while avoiding the way she intentionally brushed her breast against his biceps.

“You’ve got the general idea here,” he said, breathing through his mouth because her perfume stung his nostrils.

“Oh, I’m not good at it. But I want to be,” she said, her words dripping with double entendre.

“That’s why you’re here,” he said neutrally, lifting his head to survey the class. Most of his students were concentrating on their work. Birdie had her tongue caught between her teeth as she carefully controlled the lines she made with her charcoal pencil. Her mother sat with her head bent, mouth twisting this way and that as she focused on her pretty horrible drawing of an apple. The college girls were texting. Not cool. He shot them a look. The older lady who had been knitting earlier had already rendered quite a nice drawing of a pineapple. She’d returned to her knitting and her needles clacked a steady rhythm that didn’t seem to bother anyone around her.

He returned his gaze to Abigail.

He didn’t understand his fascination with her. She seemed layered to such a degree that no man could unwrap her. Steely one minute, achingly vulnerable the next. Abigail was the Mona Lisa, complicated and mysterious. Her beauty a masterpiece of shadow and illumination, a study in contrast. He found himself wanting to know her better, to break through the shell she’d built around herself.

If only Abigail could let go.

He imagined her clothes pooling on the floor, her lithe body moving in the moonlight, eyes dark and dilated. Moments before she’d swayed toward him and he’d wondered if she felt something, too.

Maybe...

“Is this better?” Peggy asked.

“Huh?”

“Ha, caught the teacher daydreaming.” The older woman chortled, a flirtatious smile curving her lips.

Abigail lifted her eyes, catching his gaze on her. A faint pink stained her cheeks as if she could read his thoughts before she lowered her head and resumed drawing. Maybe...

“Daydreaming’s good for an artist. I often think a good deal about what I want before I go after it.”

Peggy raised her painted-on eyebrows. “Indeed.”

Leif caught himself. “I meant artwise, sly lady.”

Peggy liked that, giggling like a geisha, her hand pressed to her mouth.

“That’s a good point,” he said to the class, noting the college girls slipping their phones into their pockets. “Envisioning your subject is very important, which is why I asked you to sketch from memory a particular fruit that spoke to you.”

“Fruits can’t speak,” Abigail said, humor lacing her tone.

“You must never have tripped on LSD,” he joked.

Everyone laughed. Except Abigail.

“I’m joking,” he said. “Whimsical wording amuses me. I’m aware fruit doesn’t talk, Mrs. Orgeron.”

She shrugged. “Never know with you guys from California.”

“Ah, she has a sense of humor,” he said with a smile, enjoying the good-natured volley of words. “And it’s Colorado, actually.”

“Where it’s legal, of course,” one of the college girls joked.

“Actually, when it comes to art, I don’t recommend using drugs or alcohol as a creative aid. My purest ideas come at times when I am open to the universe, not under the influence of any chemicals. I urge you to think about your subjects, delve into why you are attached to that particular image. When you approach your work, a measure of passion is important. You need to feel something for that piece, for art is the transfer of emotion. The best works of art convey the intent of the creator.”

Several people nodded, washing away the fear that he would be stuck with a classroom of students who didn’t understand the significance of emotion in art.

“When you complete your drawing, place it on my desk. I want to study each one to help me determine your current level of skill. There are no bad drawings, only opportunities for improvement, so please don’t be embarrassed if your banana resembles a—”

Peggy opened her mouth.

“Don’t say it,” he teased.

The rest of the class chuckled good-naturedly. Except for Abigail. She bobbed her head toward Birdie and he got the drift. No quasisexual jokes. Or jokes about LSD for that matter. He had to remember he had a child in his class.

Even if Birdie had likely heard much worse in the halls at school. St. George’s might be a religious school, but its students were worldly thanks to Snapchat and YouTube. Not that that justified making off-color jokes.

He gave Abigail a look that said he understood her unstated concerns. She inclined her head as a thank-you.

“Once you’ve turned in your drawing you may leave. Your homework is to look for opportunity. Where are the subjects you wish to sketch? Why do you feel compelled to draw them? Tie your emotion to the object and examine it.”

Five minutes later, only Birdie and Abigail remained in the classroom. Birdie hunkered over her drawing, eraser crumbs scattering the tabletop, her tongue trapped between her teeth. Abigail stood beside her, shifting in an impatient manner.

“She’s almost done,” Abigail said as he moved closer.

“Let her finish. No big deal.” He pushed a chair into place and met Abigail’s gaze. “Someone told me you’re taking Shannon’s place on the Laurel Woods Art Festival committee. Guess having a baby trumps art, huh?”

“Motherhood isn’t something you do part-time.”

“No, I guess not.”