Page 56 of The Cul-de-Sac War

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 rippled to the waist of her yellow pea coat that appeared to fit her to a tee. Maybe he hadn’t seen her complete wardrobe in the past few weeks, but it was no secret that on the rare occasion she wasn’t wearing sweatpants, she was borrowing an outfit from her short roommate.

But here, now, well, there was no doubt about it. Those sleeves reaching to the tips of her slender wrists, that collar, those seams resting perfectly on her shoulders: that coat was entirely meant for her.

Which meant Bree had bought it.

Recently.

For this occasion.

With this guy.

The purring Tesla guy.

Chip overcompensated with a bright tone of voice. “Why, hello there, neighbor. I heard your voice a minute ago but, surprisingly enough, didn’t recognize it.” He creased his brows as he looked into Bree’s eyes. “I can’t imagine why, though. I should’ve recognized that happy-go-lucky laugh anywhere. I mean, Bree Leake. Happy happy happy.”

He clipped on a bright smile to match his eyes.

Bree’s grin dampened.

Then she recovered.

“So?” she said at last, nodding to the bushes.