tree he could find. He leaned his body a couple of inches to the left and peeked out from behind the large oak tree. They slowed at his easel. A couple glanced around as if to spot the artist who’d abandoned his station. One man squinted as he took a step nearer the easel, examining it with a frown. Somebody else pointed at something in the center, and the man nodded. Finally, they moved on.
Chip pushed himself off the grass and was dusting himself off when he saw his mother step up to his neighboring artist.
Her voice drifted with the breeze.
“Sir”—she paused and scanned the clipboard—“Mr. Harding. Do you know who set up their easel there? I don’t have anyone on the map listed for this spot.”
Mr. Harding took off his beret and coughed, his milky blue eyes dodging toward him in the trees and back.
“Mr. Harding,” his mother repeated, “is that a yes?”
Mr. Harding coughed again.
For some reason the man wasn’t ratting him out. For some reason, he looked terrifically red around the neck as he clutched his beret.
“Mr. Harding,” his mother said a third time.
If the guy was going to be paranoid, Chip might as well use it to his advantage.
The next time Mr. Harding shot a glance in his direction, Chip mustered his best I’m-an-unstable-man-and-conflicted-artist-alone-with-you-in-the-woods stare. Chip raised his brows as if to purr, Just wait until they leave, buddy.
Bingo.
“No, I . . .” Beret Man fumbled with his supplies, dropping his brushes and paint in his bag. He hoisted his easel under one arm, wet canvas and all, and returned his beret to his shiny bald head. “I was just leaving.”
“Now, now, Mr. Harding, please stay!” Chip’s mother called after him. But he was already kicking up dust on the trail.
They all gawked silently as they watched him stalk off.
His mother gave an upbeat pivot on her heels. “Well,” she said, tucking the clipboard under her wing, “that’s the wonderful thing about artists. With them, there’s never a dull moment. You never know when their next inspiration will strike. Let’s move on. Next up, we should see a lovely work in progress from our young prodigy Ms. Tiffany Marler, one of Laurel Springs Studio’s own protégées.”
Several heads nodded in studious spirit, and together they moved on.
He held his breath as he watched the last pair of heels slip out of view. Already two other groups had passed while he’d been out of sight, and there was no way he was going to be stuck behind some briars in a horse field missing his moment with Mr. Richardson.
If he could just—he looked down at his pants, snagged by some thorns—get past these surly bushes. He pulled his leg up, and the thorns dug in deeper.
Male and female voices came up the path.
The woman laughed a nice feathery laugh, and he grabbed a briar between two fingers and pulled it away from him. He seemed to have stepped directly into the center of the thicket, and like a fly caught in a Venus fly trap, he seemed to be the briars’ prey. Without hurting himself further, he worked to unwind each briar wrapped from his ankle to his thigh.
The voices were growing louder and, with them, his sense of determination and anxiety. He was not going to have wasted the workday stuck in a briar patch. If he could just—he pulled the fourth briar off—hurry up the stupid things . . .
Losing all patience in one snap moment, he ripped his leg forward. His leg burst free, and he high-kneed several steps over the rest of the bushes, cantered down the small embankment, and took one final leap over the sodden ditch to get back onto the path.
His feet landed squarely in the center.
There was a disconcerting feeling of airiness about his thighs and he bent down to examine his pants.
A couple of stubborn thorns still stuck to the fabric. He swatted them off, but there was no major damage.
He straightened, tugged on the cuffs of his nicest suit coat, and walked back to his easel.
Now. Where was he?
He picked up his brush and gave the canvas several brown strokes.
“Taking a bathroom break?”
Chip recognized her voice instantly.
That voice.
He forced up a casual smile and turned.
With parallel expression Bree smiled back at him, hands clasped in front of her. She looked absolutely—no, ravishing couldn’t be the word—startling as she stood beside her companion. Her long red hair was in neither a braid nor a bun, and the slight waves