around.
“In the end,” he said, jerking his chin toward her door, “I really can’t leave without at least seeing what you’ve been up to. You ready to show off?”
Suddenly shy, she meandered past him to unlock the door. Warmth flooded her yet again.
Okay, that really needed to stop.
“You asked for it.” She pushed open the door. “Enter at your own risk.”
She gauged his reaction, hoping for approval, as always. But with D.J., it was as if she were taking him to a favorite viewpoint on a mountain or reading him a poem that had touched her. Although her classroom was public, it was also a private treasure: a place where she and her students transferred all their dreams into art.
She realized how much D.J.’s opinion meant to her. How much it’d always meant, even though she hadn’t been exposed to it for so long.
He entered, silently taking in the ordered insanity of halfway-finished tile murals, collages, paintings, drawings and sculptures. Through him, she smelled the oils and plaster, felt the cool of the air and the shiver of a creative haven.
“Damn,” was all he said.
But, somehow, it meant everything. The extent of his “damn” showed in the glow of his gaze, in the way he planted his hands on his hips as if he were surveying an impressive skyline.
“It’s nothing much.” She wandered to her desk and shuffled through a neat pile of papers, just so she wouldn’t have to show him how much his reaction affected her. “The kids work hard.”
D.J. had walked over to a painting near the shuttered window: a canvas half-shrouded, leaving only a peak of blue-gray uncovered. As he lifted off the sheet, Allaire sucked in a lungful of oxygen.
He’d found it—the project she’d been laboring over since school had started.
It was an educated guess—a whimsical take—on what nighttime Paris might look like from the balcony of a modest hotel. It was a substitute for her never having traveled there, a representation of the ambitions she’d let fly into the wind after high school.
“Allaire,” D.J. said softly, and she knew exactly what he was seeing because she’d described her hopes to him so many times.
Sadness, happiness, something tightened her throat and dampened her eyes, yet she didn’t allow herself to cry. Nothing was so bad it could make her do that.
“That’s how I’ve been letting off steam,” she said carefully. “That and my freelance dinner-theater stuff.”
“This…” D.J. kept staring at the painting, even if it was only the beginning of a final image. “You’ve matured. I always knew you had talent—everyone knew—but, damn, Allaire, what’re you doing teaching in a high school?”
Ouch.
D.J. glanced at her, an apology in his gaze. “I didn’t mean it that way. Teaching’s noble. I was only trying to compliment you.”
The honesty in his tone unsettled her. She didn’t know why, but she’d never been able to deal with praise. It was much easier to believe the negative and strive to improve after that.
The curse of a people pleaser, she thought.
Her next words came out more as a dodge to hearing additional compliments than anything. “Dax said that teaching was a better idea than taking time off to study art. I mean, he told me I was good, sure, but I don’t think he ever paid enough attention to my work to really see it….”
At the mention of his brother’s name, D.J. had straightened, covering her painting back up.
Great. She’d had to go and open her big mouth. Why did Dax always seem to wedge himself into their conversations? D.J. obviously didn’t want to talk about him, but there she was, bringing him up again.
Maybe, subconsciously, she’d even done it on purpose.
D.J. glanced at the ground, then at her. She could tell that there were no hard feelings, thank goodness. Wonderful, dependable D.J.
“I wish you’d reconsider doing that mural for me,” he said. “And I’m not only offering because of the old-friend network. You’d add some beauty and substance to my place, Allaire. I mean it.”
Maybe it was out of guilt for mentioning Dax, or maybe it was because she sensed D.J. genuinely did appreciate her talents. But Allaire found herself giving the idea a second thought.
A new start on a new project, she thought. But there had to be rules.
“Would I be working…alone?” she asked.
D.J. narrowed his eyes. “If you’re worried about provincial gossip that might surface because you’re around me, then no. I’ll make sure there’s always quiet work going on around you.”
“Quiet.” She laughed. “I’m kind of used to being surrounded by students. They work by my side unless they need guidance.”
She couldn’t help it. Fresh ideas were already flooding her head. Maybe this mural could even be her best effort yet. Then again, that’s what she always thought before starting a new work.
“Great.” D.J. rubbed his hands together. “So, as the featured artist, you’d need to clear room on your calendar for the grand Rib Shack opening. You’d be my special guest.”
Thoughts of what he’d said earlier about never finding anyone as good as her rushed back. It led Allaire to a gut feeling that D.J. could be asking her to the opening as his date, so she nipped that in the bud. Or maybe she was just that neurotic. Probably.
“Just tell me when to show up and I’ll be there for my buddy’s big night,” she said brightly.
When his smile fell, Allaire scolded herself. Had she gone too far in her effort to make things clear?
But, in the next moment, he was back to being casual, nice D.J.—the guy with the comforting grin.
“To a buddy’s big night then,” he said, as her heart slumped in relief.
Or maybe it had slumped in…
Jeez, she didn’t even know anymore.
A week later, ten days prior to opening night, the Rib Shack was almost set to go.
They’d moved into an area where the resort had already planned to house a restaurant, so the kitchen was just about in working order. As well, the dining room’s family-style tables and picnic benches were due for delivery soon. D.J. had even secured a staff, thanks to the guidance of Grant Clifton, and some of them were in back, experimenting with cooking gadgets and listening to the expertise of current employees brought over from already existing Rib Shacks. D.J. had known he could depend on Grant for anything, especially since his high school pal had played a major part in bringing this restaurant to Thunder Canyon.
Now, D.J. stood at the long bar lining the left side of the room across from where the mural would lord it over the diners. He was tinkering with the frame of one of the sepia
