Amanda
I’m walking around the town square window shopping and enjoying the warm weather. I don’t really need anything, but it’s nice to be out and about on the weekend. The fresh spring air makes me breathe deeper and it clears my head from the busy week of work and school.
“Hi, Amanda. Such a nice day, isn’t it?”
I turn when I hear my name, a little surprised that anyone is speaking to me as I wander around the quaint town. I turn to see Beth, the high school admin assistant. She’s the one who keeps everything in order—from the students to the teachers. Nothing ever gets by Beth and we appreciate all she does to keep everything running smoothly.
“Oh, hi there, Beth. It’s good to see you.” I smile at her, happy to see someone I know.
“And you, too! What are you up to today?” Beth has an arm full of shopping bags and it’s clear she’s been supporting the local economy.
“Oh, just some window shopping. Enjoying the warm weather, really. Looks like you’ve done some damage to your pocketbook.” I chuckle and gesture to the armful of bags she’s carrying.
“Well, yes. Seems those kids of mine grow out of their clothes about every other week. They cost us a damn fortune. But what are you gonna do?”
I nod in agreement. “I hear kids are expensive, but mostly worth it.”
She laughs out loud. “Mostly. That’s a good way to put it.” She shakes her head and takes a step away from me. “Hope you have a good afternoon, Amanda.”
“You, too! See you Monday.”
I take a deep breath of the clean air and glance after Beth as she walks away. She’s a nice woman, we just don’t really have anything in common except that we work at the same place.
I suddenly wish I’d worked harder at making friends. I see people walking around and most everyone has a companion. They’re all talking and laughing in the picturesque town tucked quietly into the lush landscape. I’ve only been in Oak Valley for a few months, but if I’d bothered to come out of my shell a little bit I probably wouldn’t feel lonely.
But I do.
Maybe that’s why I don’t exactly love living here. Despite being at Oak Valley High since the start of the school year as the new physical education teacher, I haven’t made any friends. Sure, the other teachers are polite, but there aren’t that many of us, and most have been here for years if not decades. The weird tall chick who towers over a lot of the male staff—including the principal—scares people off.
It’s always been this way for me. I hit five-foot-nine at twelve and was six feet by fourteen. Talk about awkward. I was bullied mercilessly all through middle school until I tried out for the girls’ basketball team. That was what finally changed my fortune. I’d always been athletic, and dribbling down a court and making layups came naturally to me. For the first time since elementary school, I was accepted and had people who understood me.
Who liked my company.
I existed to play, to fight the other team tooth and nail, to win. It felt awesome on every level to no longer have my height be my weakness. I went from hearing, “Hey, how’s the weather up there?” and “Pick up my pencil for me, giraffe girl,” to “Hey, want to play HORSE in my driveway?” And even, “Amanda, will you go out with me?”
Yes, I did, and yes, I would.
When I went to the University of Connecticut on a sports scholarship, I thought I had it made. I ate, drank, and breathed basketball all day, every day. I even had my eyes firmly centered on a career in the WNBA. The world was my oyster.
But it isn’t anymore.
Not at all.
Internally sighing, I continue my meandering journey down Main Street. The square is exactly that. Four streets making the sides with a tiny park in the middle with trees and benches. Across from me is the courthouse with its neo-classical atrium. It’s an impressive building that takes up almost the whole block.
I keep walking and finally stop at Statements. They always have an irresistible display of handcrafted jewelry in the window and I always have to stop and look. A few weeks ago I bought a pair of sea glass and silver earrings that I absolutely love. I might be a bit of a tomboy with a sports background, but I do love pretty things like jewelry. I almost go in, but I’m not really in the mood to shop for real today. Window shopping is just fine for now and I keep strolling.
Crossing the street at the corner, The Creative Gallery is my next distraction opportunity. As I’m loitering outside this gallery on the sidewalk, I notice the landscapes in the window. They’re vibrant and interesting, and since I’ve never actually come in here before, I change my mind about shopping. The glass door opens silently as I step inside.
The inside smells strongly of acrylics, which is logical, but what draws my attention is the truly boring collection of abstract canvases in one corner. Standing next to them is a man with coal-black hair. I pay him no mind as I focus elsewhere.
What’s the purpose of abstract art, anyway? I’ve never been able to wrap my head around it. Brushstrokes and splatters just spit out on the surface. Why? If a painting isn’tofanything, then why create it?
My soft-soled kicks make no sound as I tip my head sideways to study wall upon wall of regular artwork. These other canvases make much more sense to me. Flowers and portraits. Countrysides and seascapes. A dog and a large-mouth bass. A mallard in flight. A cat snoozing on a stump.
And then come the charcoal nudes. They’re downright sexy. The curve of a hip or the roundness of a breast. The ripples and veins of a flexed bicep. The flawless set of muscular pecks over the ladder of a six-pack of abs. The V that leads down to the fine curly hairs that float above a shadowy groin. Still, there’s the faintest outline of the shape of his manhood.

Is it too hot in here? Because…damn.
A woman enters with the click-clack of sharp high heels and, a little embarrassed, I scoot away from the nudes section, pronto.
Only after I’ve done it do I think about how silly I’m being. There’s nothing whatsoever shameful about the human body. But Connecticut is a place where sex and especially bawdiness isn’t openly discussed. Not that I consider myself repressed; I’m a grown woman who isn’t a virgin and hasn’t been for a decade. But having sex and being okay with staring at it in public are two very different sets of parameters.
This is no doubt why my complexion feels hot. So, I stray to the far side, near those bland abstracts. Maybe if I gawk at them long enough, I’ll start to see the appeal. Eh, probably not, but I shuffle over there anyway. I’m peering more at my feet as I attempt to cool off my face, and I don’t notice that I’m knocking into someone until I make contact and hear a tight, “Humph…”
An apology is already on my lips—I swear, I’m not normally clumsy—when a pair of sultry onyx eyes slide up my torso, slither past my not-that-impressive chest, skitter along the column of my throat, and eventually meet my gaze. He’s forced to tip his chin upward to do this because I’m taller than he is.
Of course I am.
This happens to me a lot. Still, this man isn’t someone I’d ever call petite. He’s only about an inch or so shorter than I am, with all that black, wavy hair and a covering of light beard scruff, the kind that happens when a guy skips a day of shaving. He has a lean build, but he’s fit; I can tell that he has defined muscles even through the short-sleeved Henley he’s wearing.
Um,yum.
The paint on his paintbrush is somewhere between beige and yellow—still boring—and he braces himself on a section of wall between canvases to regain his balance. Nonetheless, he’s hardly moved. I like a man who’s sturdy and not easily toppled. But then he opens his mouth.
“Whoa there, tall girl…”
Two
Sam
Despite having a big, light-saturated studio upstairs, I sometimes like to work while also tending to the sales floor of my gallery shop. Patrons usually enjoy watching me work, and I can’t say that I mind the audience. There’s an extra energy involved when people observe something in the act of creation, and I feed off it like it’s ambrosia.
Besides, there’s almost nothing better than becoming entranced by a painting project. I live to integrate myself with the canvas, to tell its secrets through the flick of a brushstroke. There have been times in my studio when I’ve grown so distracted by what I’m doing that hours go by. A few times, it’s even been days. When I’m painting, all my focus and concentration goes into it. I don’t know hunger or thirst. I don’t notice the passage of time.
And on occasion, that’s led to some issues.
Like now, for instance.
I know better than to allow myself to slip into such a fugue state, especially when mixing with the general populace, but I’ve done it anyway. And when someone bumps into me, almost causing me to swipe my acrylic paint in the wrong spot, I whip around, annoyed at the interloper.
But then I look up. I have to keep looking up because the woman who stumbled into me has an extra inch or two of height on my own five-foot-ten. Automatically, I reach out to steady myself and mumble something I don’t think all the way through. Only after I’ve spouted off does it occur to me that calling someone “tall girl” in this day and age may not be the most considerate form of address.
To save myself a negative interaction with a possible customer, I plaster on my best eccentric-artist smile.
“Can I help you with anything?”
I keep my tone cheerfully cordial, but it doesn’t help. She’s throwing daggers my way so lethally that it’s a wonder I’m not bleeding out.
“Who says that nowadays? Seriously?” she hisses.
“Says what?” I should’ve kept those words from falling from my mouth, but I don’t. Not in time.
“Calls a grown woman of twenty-nine ‘girl?’ Where have you been living for the past several decades? Under a rock?”
“No. And I didn’t mean anything by it. You just surprised me, and then I noticed how big you are and…”
“Howbig?” This comes out as an incensed squawk. Oh, boy. Her eyes are like chips of jade with little flecks of silver. She’s all long blonde spirals and peaches-and-cream skin. I’d consider her pretty damn glorious if she weren’t about to slaughter me.
“Okay, maybe that came out wrong, but you’re as tall as a lot of basketball players I know.”
“So what? And I did play basketball. I do play. I…” She trails off, and her expression transforms from pure, unadulterated fury into something more vulnerable. But it’s only visible for a flash. A microsecond. Then, she switches gears. “What kind of Southerner are you?”
“I’m not Southern,” I explain, though I can’t say why. It’s not like it’s helping the situation. “I’m from New York City and Rhode Island by way of Indiana. I’m an RISD graduate.”
She digests this with the kind of pursed lips that result from feeding someone castor oil.

“Is that even English?”
“Yes. I’m quite fluid considering it’s my native language.” Yeah, I’m just being a smartass at this point. I’ll admit it. But this woman is captivating when she gets going. Truth be told, her anger is turning me on a bit, which is really weird. Typically, a woman set to “royally pissed off” isn’t my kink.
I know what’s coming next. Here’s the part where she scoffs at me and says something akin to, “I should’ve known,” or “I could’ve guessed.” Only she doesn’t say that at all.
“No matter where you come from, there’s such a thing as manners. You should try using them.”
“That’s pretty rich coming from the person who bumped into me.”
Her features change through various emotions like a traffic light. There’s still indignation there, sure. But there’s also confusion and regret, though only a tiny sliver of that last one. Still, she quits narrowing her gaze and clenching her jaw. A mask washes over her face as she quirks the corners of her mouth up, but just barely. I can tell this is requiring a great effort from her.
“You’re right. I apologize for unintentionally entering your personal space.”
“You’re forgiven.” I mean it, but she goes on.
“But if you can’t handle the basic courtesy expected by small Southern towns, maybe you should consider moving elsewhere.”
If she thinks I’m backing down from that, she’s got another think coming.
“I see no reason for that. The people around here adore me. I’m their resident artist.”
“What’s that you’re working on?” She’s regarding the piece behind me as if it came from some four-year-old’s coloring book.
“This is one of my most recent displays. I call it ‘Four Seasons in a Small Town.’ It’s a project of abstracts depicting spring, summer, fall, and winter here in Oak Valley. I based it exclusively on the feel of each time of year through hues and textures.”
“That’s why it’s so…” She waves her hands and squints her eyes as if having to work to come up with something nice to say. “Covered in taupe?”
“Taupe is close, I suppose. The actual shades I used were buff linen, ivory, vanilla, and ochre.”
“Ochre?”
“Yeah, it’s a kind of dark, brownish yellow.”
She scrutinizes my canvas. “This is supposed to be about a certain season? Which one?”
“You can’t tell?”
“It’s not bright enough for summer, too bland to be fall.”
“Ah,” I lift an index finger, “but the end of autumn going into winter is all about this combination of colors. It’s in people’s lawns and landscaping. It’s part of the outlying fields as well as some trees and shrubs. To me, that screams late fall after all the trees have dropped their leaves.”
She tips her head from side to side as if contemplating this, and, almost reluctantly, she gives a mini shrug and a subtle bob of her head. I take this as a win.
“I’m Sam Baldwin, and this is my gallery,” I’m compelled to tell her. “This group of paintings is only a single aspect of my work. I’m hosting a grand opening show for my newest never-before-seen projects here this Saturday, along with a few selections from other Georgian artists. You should come, Ms.—”
“Sizemore. Amanda Sizemore.”
“Amanda.” Her name rolls off my tongue. It suits her. “I’d like to see you there. Come find me if you decide to stop by.”
She takes a pace back, seems to recognize that this would be a bad idea, and pivots around.
“Maybe I will.”
Three
Amanda
I maintain a rapid pace as I head toward The Creative Gallery. I try to slow down a bit, but I’m reluctantly looking forward to seeing Sam again. In spite of his abrasive personality, I can’t ignore the attraction I feel. And the fact that he’s hot as sin isn’t a minor thing at this point.