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She blinked and looked away. “I can’t bear to think he was alone when he was given his diagnosis,” she whispered. “And that for those next few months he listened to me mope and gripe when he was dying.”

“Maybe that helped him.” Luke used his thumb to wipe away the tears that crept down her cheeks. “Maybe when he talked to you, when he saw you . . . they were precious times when he could pretend everything was normal.”

His theory received a watery smile. “Maybe.” Taking a deep breath, she took a step back. “Where we’re about to go painting, I went there in the summer with Colin.” She paused and seemed to gather her thoughts. “Looking back, maybe he knew he was dying then, and he’d wanted to do it with me one last time, like we used to do with Mom when we were kids. Maybe today is about keeping those memories alive.”

As always with Anna, her wobble hadn’t lasted long. He smiled. “Then we should get a move on.”

They started to walk again. After a few minutes of silence he felt her gaze on him. When he turned, she smirked. “Nice hug, by the way. You’re learning.”

Learning to be her friend. He liked the idea of it, even if there had been nothing conscious about his response to seeing her cry. He’d not stood there and remembered her words about the best way to deal with a tearful woman. He’d instinctively wrapped her in his arms for an altogether different reason.

Because his heart had wanted him to.

“Thanks.” He decided he couldn’t let something she’d said earlier, go without a comment. “By the way,” he said, mimicking her phrase. “That last guy you dated, the one you thought was IT? If he was fool enough not to see what he had in you, he didn’t deserve you.”

She gave him a smile so sweet, so grateful, he wanted to reach for her again. To flutter kisses along her freckled cheeks. Sink onto those rose-pink lips. But the reasons he hadn’t kissed her yesterday, were still there. He’d hurt her—he wasn’t stupid, he knew she’d seen it as a rejection—but how much more would he hurt her if he gave in to this urge, this crush, this immense attraction? Because he was not the right man for her.

He dug his hands into his pockets, and carried on walking.

The studio was on the top floor of a converted warehouse. It looked like he’d imagined a cool art studio to look. Brick walls, open space, lots of light coming in through the windows. Wooden easels supporting giant canvases splattered with bright colored paints.

They were ushered in by a woman with purple and green stripes in her hair. After being given an apron each, they were shown to two easels that faced each other, and talked through the various brushes and paint options available. “Would you like some help getting started, or do you have your own ideas of what you’d like to paint?”

“Help—”

“We’ve got it from here,” Anna interrupted him and gave the woman a warm smile. “Thank you.”

He stared at the white canvas in front of him, the messy paints, and then back at Anna. “We have?”

She pointed to her chest. “Daughter of an artist, remember? Did we get anyone to tell us what to do at the climbing wall?”

“I could teach the instructors,” he muttered.

“Exactly.” She picked up a brush and used it to point at his canvas. “We should both paint something that reminds us of Colin. It can be a memory of something we did with him, or an object, or just a feeling.”

“How the fuck do you paint a feeling?”

She rolled her eyes. “Maybe you should stick to an object. I’m going with watercolors because they’re my favorite. You choose whatever works best for your vision.”

His vision?

It was all the advice she gave him. For the next hour or so, her whole attention was riveted on her canvas. Many times he looked over, not at what she was painting, but at her. The focus, the natural beauty of her girl next door face. Things his sorrow had blinded him to a few weeks ago, but were now so clear he wondered how he’d ever stood near her and not felt this flutter in his chest. Not felt the ache of want, of need.

“You don’t seem to be doing much painting.” She quirked a brow playfully at him.

“You can’t rush art.”

Laughter lit up her face and God, he was not a man known for his humor, but he loved making her laugh.

She refocused on her canvas and he sighed and turned back to his. So far, he had a circle he’d painted free hand—more of a saggy oblong if he was honest—and a line bisecting it. Right side he’d painted a blue sky. Left he’d painted all black. Dipping his brush into the yellow, he painted another questionable circle on the right side, with lines coming off it, representing the rays of the sun.

He cleaned his brush, stuck it in the white paint, figured that was too white so mixed it with a bit of yellow and painted a crescent moon on the left side. Then put down his brush and considered it done.

Ten minutes of watching Anna at work, of swallowing hard and turning away every time that pink tongue darted out to wet her lips, she finally put down her brush. “Finished?”

“Yes.” She gave her canvas a nod of satisfaction before looking up at him. “Have you?”

“I’ve gone for the minimalist approach.”