On His Paintbrush by Alina Jacobs

When I first laid eyes on the curvy brunette, she made me a drink then said I made her wet
I couldn’t pass up the invitation.
I wanted her to paint me like one of her French boys.
Before I walked out of her dinky small town café, I left my card, all black.
I’ll show her—this billionaire can be very creative.
I am, after all, quite a talented finger painter!
Hazel
I turn weird and awkward around attractive men. I’m a nervous sweater, and when Archer walked into my art café that night, he was making me soaking wet. He was stupidly attractive—which caused me to go into excruciating detail about my sweating problem, insult what he had under his fig leaf, and imply I was running a brothel.
But he left his card, so I couldn’t have been all bad.
I needed the ego boost. My career as an artist was a joke. I was desperately trying to live the #bossbabe life after I couldn’t hack it as an artist in New York City and moved back to my small hometown.
Now my business is failing.
I’m hosting an artists’ retreat that is more day drinking octogenarians than renowned painters.
The mean girl from art school moved into town and is trying to ruin my life.
But hey, suffering is inspirational, right? But then so is Archer. With his model good looks and muscular, tattooed chest, Archer might be the creative, maybe even crazy, idea that I desperately need to save my disaster of a life.
So I called…And immediately regretted it.
When I yelled at him later about the practical joke, he smiled that stupid hot smile. I knew I should forget I ever met Archer Svensson—knew he was just a crazy stupid idea.
But when he said in that deep, sexy voice, “Do you want to paint me nude?” well, let’s just say, he awoke the starving artist in me.