Painting Rainbows

Layla

Pushing the front door closed on the stone cottage I was staying in, I set about peeling off the multiple layers of clothing required in this part of the world. Canberra was cold in winter, but this place could be cold even in late spring.

After I showered in the bathtub-shower combo in the small bathroom, I stoked the fire, then studied the half-finished painting I’d started a week ago.

Without much thought, I got to work. Painting was second nature to me. It was something I’d done off and on from a young age. But school and my busy career as an assistant to an Australian senator had gotten in the way of my creative side for many years.

Since coming to stay in my Aunty Florence’s tiny English cottage, the artist bug had struck once again.

As the therapeutic feeling flowed through me, I hummed to myself.

A loud knock on the door snapped me out of my creative zone. When I glanced up from my artwork, I realized how dark it had become—the only illumination in the gloomy room emanated from the open fireplace.

After another knock, I set my paintbrush down and went to the door. As I pulled the door open, the brass knocker rattled against the white wood. My mouth dropped at the attractive man standing on my doorstep, hunched and soaked to the bone. He shivered as rivulets of water rolled down his face, along his stubbled jaw, and onto his classic white T-shirt. He tugged his leather jacket and hood tighter around himself and stomped his black boots on the stoop.

Okay. I had to admit the man was more than attractive. He was downright—

“It’s about bloody time,” he snapped out as he pushed past me into the cottage.

Rude.

Downright rude is what he was.

“Have you got a phone in here?” When I didn’t respond, he spun back to me. “Hello? Are you deaf?” He raised his voice. “Phone! Where is it? I need to use it now,” he said, his tone urgent and demanding.

“Excuse me?” I rushed after him as he went in search of the device himself. “Do you make it a habit of breaking into people’s homes to use their stuff?”

The attractive yet rude man picked up the bright red, plastic rotary telephone and pressed the receiver to his ear. He waved the thing in the air. “What’s this, the 1980s?”

“It was already here,” I mumbled, feeling defensive. I wasn’t sure why. He was a burglar, a trespasser. He should be grateful I hadn’t whacked him over the head with a frying pan. Instead, I stared at his wet shirt plastered to his abs.

The guy glanced across at my artwork. “Nice painting. You like rainbows, huh?”

I gaped at my work in progress. I hadn’t even noticed I had painted another rainbow.

The guy didn’t wait for my response as his phone call was answered. “Myra, hi, it’s me. I can’t get through. The stream is up. Apparently, there’s flash flooding all around the area. I’m going to have to find somewhere to crash in town.” He paused to listen for a few moments, his burglar tone changed in an instant. I even dared to think that he sounded caring. “It’s all right. I’m just glad you and Ed got home safe. Yeah, there are power outages here too. I’ll deal with that. Yeah, you stay safe too. Take care.” He hung up and placed the phone back on its stand.

I frowned in confusion. “Did you say flash flooding and power outages?” Before he could answer, I blurted out, “Where?”

The guy regarded me as if I were out of my mind. “Here. Around the village.”

“Are you serious?”

He flicked the light switch up and down several times to no avail. “See?”

It was then I noticed the lamp over the painting had gone out. “Oh.”

The man and I stood across from each other as an uncomfortable silence stretched out between us. His gaze raked over my body, undressing me with a look. Just when I felt like I was about to go nuts, the man flashed a naughty half-smirk and finally spoke up, “I’m Grady, by the way. Grady Bradbury.”

“Layla,” I responded, still watching him cautiously. “Well, then, Grady Bradbury, do you make a habit of barging your way into someone’s home uninvited?”

His smirk grew bigger.

Was he finding this amusing?

“Only when I’m soaked to the bone, freezing cold, and I can’t get home.” He moved toward me. “Do you mind?”

I started. “What?”

Grady pushed me aside and warmed himself by the fire.

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, no, of course not. Make yourself at home.” Sarcasm laced my tone.

As I stormed into the kitchen to boil the kettle over the gas, Grady’s words floated after me.

“Are you always this friendly?”

“What, did you expect to be treated like royalty? You broke into my home,” I called out, irritated.

“I did not!”

“Did so,” I grumbled under my breath and dropped a teabag into my mug.

“Did not.”

His sudden closeness startled me. He was hanging in the doorway, looking like the sexiest burglar I’d ever seen. “Did so,” I repeated.

“You answered the door.”

“Yeah, but then you barged in before I could get a word in,” I stated flatly.

“It was an emergency. I had to make sure Myra and Ed were safe and let them know I was safe,” Grady explained as he ruffled his wet, dark hair with his fingers.

“I should toss you out on your ass.”

“So why don’t you?”

“Because... it’s crazy out there,” I stammered, glancing toward the front windows.

“I thought you didn’t notice?”

I hesitated. “I didn’t.” It was then I realized I wasn’t making any sense.

The grin that crossed Grady’s face both irked me and made my belly do flip-flops.

“I should absolutely throw you out. I mean, you barged in here, used my phone, warmed yourself by my fire, all without being invited.” I averted my gaze as I blushed and focused on jiggling the teabag in the hot water.

He sauntered over to me, grabbed the mug out of my hand, and took a cautious sip. “I’m also stealing your tea.” He grimaced. “Needs some sugar, though. Do you mind?” He grabbed the sugar bowl and scooped some sugar into the liquid.

I gritted my teeth. “Yes, I do mind, actually. I think it’s time you left.”

“What?”

“You need to find a place to stay, right? Then you’d better get a move on.”

The sexy burglar’s mouth dropped open. “You’re going to send me back out in that?”

I took the mug from him and set it on the counter before taking Grady by the arm. “Yes, I am.”

“You cold woman.” Grady swiped the hot drink up into his hands again.

I tugged on his arm, and he reluctantly followed me to the front door.

“But... but the fire is warm, and this room is cozy, and this tea...” He took another sip. “Oh, this tea is delicious. Surely, you have a spare bed I can sleep in? Somewhere to dry my clothes?” he quickly asked, but I didn’t slow my steps as I escorted him out and opened the front door.

Grady cringed at the loud sound of the pouring rain.

“Let me suggest to you the Red Bear B&B?” I offered.

“But that’s... I have to ride there on my motorcycle, in the torrential rain.”

“Ride safe.” I grinned, pushed the door closed in Grady’s face, and went back to contemplate my painting.