given her some kind of reassuring gesture, but she wasn’t that nice a person.
Kelly walked slowly to her car. Tess didn’t want to be alone with him, but she couldn’t make herself run inside. Brad called after his wife. “I’d love to have a drink waiting when I get there. Three olives this time. Those good ones you stuff with blue cheese.”
The confident woman who’d first confronted Tess at the Broken Chimney over the condom display had disappeared. Kelly gave a short, jerky nod and drove off.
Tess regarded Brad with disgust. “They don’t make men like you anymore.”
“I’m old-school,” he retorted, “and I won’t apologize for it. I protect my family.”
“Yeah, I’m a big threat, all right.”
He jabbed his finger at her. “Leave my wife alone. My daughter, too.”
“Here’s a thought. Why don’t you do them both a favor and let them speak for themselves?”
“Do you seriously think you can challenge me? You’re nobody.”
She mustered all the bravado she could. “And you’re a big deal. The undisputed king of Tempest, Tennessee. I get that. I just don’t care.”
“You will.” He turned away and disappeared into the woods.
Tess went back inside and locked the door. Brad Winchester was narrow-minded, pretentious, and combative—the worst kind of bully. But was he also violent?
Kelly had denied that he was physically abusive, but was that the truth? Winchester’s hostility seemed out of proportion to what Tess had done. Maybe his antipathy had more to do with his need to be in charge than it had to do with the town’s sex education curriculum. He was a man used to having his own way in everything, and he didn’t intend to let anyone, especially a woman and an outsider, challenge him.
* * *
When she returned to the schoolhouse, Wren was asleep in her nest in the upstairs bedroom. As Ian approached, baby monitor in hand, she decided not to tell him about Brad Winchester’s lurking. It would only strengthen his concern about the move to the cabin, and Tess needed to get back to living on her own again. Without him. And soon.
He gave her a lazy once-over. “This time I’m going to paint you for real.”
She shook off the aftereffects of her disagreeable encounter at the cabin. “I’ve heard that before. You tend to get distracted.”
“It’s all about mental discipline. I didn’t concentrate enough last time.”
“And this time will be different?”
“Absolutely.” He drew her into the studio where the rolling metal cart, loaded with tubes, pots, and squeeze bottles of paint, already sat in the middle of the room.
“Feel free to take off your clothes,” he said. “I won’t look.” He turned his back, unnecessarily studying the supplies he’d already organized.
“Do we have to do this?” she said. “I’m feeling self-conscious.”
He braced a hand on his hip. “Are we back to all your body-image crap again?”
“I’m allowed to have body-image issues. It’s my body.”
“And God couldn’t have created a more perfect one. Come on, Tess. Inspire me.”
“Damn it!” She pulled her sweater over her head, grumbling the whole time. “You could hire the most beautiful figure models in the world, but do you do that? No.” She kicked off her shoes. “Here’s what I think. I think you’re just cheap.” She tugged off her jeans and unfastened her bra. “You don’t want to pay for a professional. Instead, you take advantage of a defenseless widow. . . .”
He snorted.
She tossed aside her bra. “And I’m leaving my underpants on!”
He crossed his arms over his chest with an annoying smugness. “A little late, considering I’ve seen everything underneath. And I mean everything.”
She loved this new, playful side of him. And she loved not knowing exactly what would happen next. “I’m cold,” she said semipetulantly.
“Now there’s where you’re wrong. You are hot, babe. So damned hot.”
She suppressed a smile. “Says you.” Wearing nothing but a skimpy pair of bikini underpants scattered with flamingos, she faced him. “No photos. I don’t want my cellulite plastered all over the Internet the next time you get pissed at me. Which you know you will.”
“Your cellulite is safe from my petty revenge.”
He unrolled a long sheet of what looked like white butcher paper, laid it out on the floor, and drew her over to stand on it.
She practiced a pout. “How come you get to keep your clothes on?”
“Discipline, remember?” He sank his hands into her hair and spread it out until she must look like a wild woman. “Perfect.” He reached for one of the paint pots. “Don’t be concerned.