Those girls viewed Wes as something to be conquered or claimed. They didn’t care about the man who worked hard to do what he loved, and who worked even harder for those he loved. They didn’t want to know about the time he split his head open falling from a skateboard or when he adopted a sick dog to give it a good home until it passed. I didn’t want to be one of them. I wasn’t one of them.

I watched Wes climb out of his car and giggled to myself when he checked his reflection in the shiny surface, straightening out his white tee and fluffing up his hair. I slipped on my own white peasant tank top over my cami and adjusted my perfectly distressed jean shorts before heading downstairs to meet him.

“Hey.” I opened the door shyly standing half behind it.

Wes’ eyes widened as he took me in, and a slow smile crept across his face until it reached ear to ear. “Hey.”

I sighed and opened the door wider. “You’re early.”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “I was actually thinking we could play hooky today.”

“You wanna ditch? My dad always told me to steer clear of the bad boys.” I smirked playfully at him.

“Oh, but C…” He stretched his arms out to his side, giving me the perfect view of, well, everything. “We’re so much more fun.”

I laughed and moved away from the door. “Where to, trouble?” I asked grabbing my handbag from the hook on the wall.

“You’ll see,” he said reaching behind me to grab the knob of the door and close it. The simple way in which half of his body wrapped around half of mine reignited those warm places he had branded. I forced my feet to keep moving forward when what I really wanted to do was roll into his arms.

At his car, Wes held the door open for me and closed it tightly when I settled into the leather seat. He slid into his own seat and gestured toward the radio when the car rumbled to life. “Ladies’ choice.”

“You know, for a bad boy, you sure are being awfully well behaved,” I teased leaning forward to turn the old dial.

“I’m trying,” he said placing his arm across the back of by seat and turning as he backed out of the driveway. “Really fucking hard.” The woodsy clean smell I’d only ever known on Wes blasted me back to my seat. Memories of what that scent was like smeared across my neck and held me frozen against my seat. “I never took you for a static girl.” Wes chuckled and nodded toward the stereo that I had abandoned. I reached up with one stiff arm and twisted the dial until a station came through the speakers.

We drove together silently toward the coastline, listening to Kings of Leon on the radio and smelling the sea air creep up on us. Almost at the exact moment “Use Somebody” came on, Wes’ fingertips touched the top of my bare shoulder from where his hand still rested behind my seat. For the entire duration of the song, his fingers danced and tickled softly across my skin.

“Hey, Capri?” Wes’ voice spoke hesitantly, and his hand stopped cupping my shoulder in his palm. “About last night,” he started to say, and my defenses immediately stood on alert. I didn’t want to hear this, and I couldn’t hear this. What would he say? It was a mistake. He went too far. It wouldn’t happen again.

“I’m sorry I walked out,” he continued, and I nodded. Here it comes. “I was so overwhelmed. I didn’t know what to do. I’ve never been as caught up in someone as I am with you. You’ve got me so wound up and flipped inside out that it’s hard for me to know which way is up.”

“You needed a minute?” I asked to clarify but still held my heart tightly to my chest.

“I needed a minute, yeah.” I let go of the tension by laughing softly.

“And how are you feeling this morning?” I asked.

“Stoked.” He grinned widely at me, and I scrunched up my nose in a smile back. “And how are you feeling today?” he asked back.

“Frustrated,” I said waggling my eyebrows at him. Wes threw his head back in a healthy laugh.

“Shit, me too, C. Me, too.” He shook his head and bit his lip surveying my bare ankle to bare thigh. “God, I’m a dumb shit.”

Wes held the door open for me once again. I smirked at him as I passed through, but once I stepped inside, my smile dropped. “What is this, Wes?” I asked consciously breathing through the empty space between my heartbeats.

“It’s just art, Capri,” Wes whispered behind me rubbing the back of my arm. “Relax, this is where you belong. I’ll show you.” I nodded and moved forward with the gentle urging of his hand.

When we’d parked in front of the tiny eclectic building in La Jolla, I had no idea what to expect. A restaurant, or a pub maybe, but not this; not an empty space filled with some of the most beautiful paintings I’d ever seen. The floor was a solid concrete slab, and a few modern sculptures strategically marked it off into four sections. Each section looked like it highlighted a different artist.

Wes led me to the first exhibit by my hand. “These are all local,” he said, waving his hand around the space. “Each month the artists submit a sample of their work, and the curator chooses five of them to host a showing the following month.” I had no idea this place even existed, but my skin buzzed with excitement.

The first one was someone who’d utilized scrap fabric within the painting. We stopped in front of what appeared to be the first in the series. It was the Golden Gate Bridge created out of hundreds of different fabrics. They ranged from plaid to polka dot, from textured to matte, and some even had a sheer, see-through quality to them. Even seen through my eyes, it was spectacular.

“So, is it just as stunning in brown as she is in orange?” Wes leaned in and whispered.

I leaned back, shoving him with my shoulder at his teasing comment. “It is,” I said and led him to the next painting with our finger-woven hands.

We continued around the room, admiring the wide range of talent to be found here in San Diego. One artist created mosaics made up of tiny painted plaster squares. The fact that the artist had used a combination of classic art forms creating something unique was brilliant to me.

Wes pulled me along into the showing of an artist who specialized in scratch art. The artist coated clay boards with India ink, and then etched on bits and pieces creating fascinatingly realistic images. “This one.” Wes nodded to a black and white piece on the wall. “I wanted you to see this one.”

“Wait.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “How often do you come here?” I knew Wes was an artist. His love of drawing, and his talent at designing tattoos was a testament to that, but I had no idea that he frequented a local art gallery.

He shrugged one shoulder but focused on the piece hung on the wall. “A few times a month when I get off work early and I don’t want to go home.” My jaw fell open. He came a few times a month? I was no art gallery aficionado, but that seemed like an awful lot of visits.

“Why would you rather come here that often than go home, Wes?” I eyed him carefully.

He directed his attention back to me and sucked his lower lip into his mouth. His eyes seemed to ponder something, but then with a sweep of his lashes that look wiped clean. “Sometimes there are nudes.” He gave me a full-toothed grin. “It’s like kosher porn.”

“Ugh, Wes.” I rolled my eyes away from him and nodded back to the Etching. “So, why did you want me to see this?” I asked.

“What do you see?” He waved his hand at the painting.

“A rainbow,” I said. Obviously.

“What color is it?”

“White.” Obviously. I could see it.

“Did you know, C, that white is the sum of all colors?” Wes grinned at me clearly proud of his chroma-knowledge.

“Or the absence of color,” I corrected him.

“Nah,” He clicked his tongue against his teeth and unwove his hand from mine to position himself behind me. “You see, when light hits the white at just the right angle,” he brushed his hand down the front of my white peasant top, “a rainbow is released.”