Paint Me Beautiful

“Come on,” he says, voice light and full of boyish excitement. “This is pretty killer.” I follow his lead and am thankful that I wore boots instead of heels. All around us is forest, limned in twilight and beckoning with wild, untamed thoughts. I tilt my head up to the sky, and before I even have the chance to shiver, Emmett is tossing a jacket over my shoulders. “Thought you might need that,” he says as he wiggles into a black sweatshirt that smashes his baggy shirt down and shows me exactly how tight his body is. Wow. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, rounded biceps. Perfect. He'd get picked up in an instant were he to go to a casting. Emmett takes off his beanie and his brown hair goes wild, frizzing and tangling despite how short it is. Well, maybe with a better shave and a haircut, I think with a girly giggle and a grin.
    Emmett pauses and watches me slip into the hunter green jacket. He runs his fingers through his hair.
    “ That bad, huh?” he asks me, and I shake my head.
    “ Kind of cute actually,” I say and then bite my lip. “Sorry, rugged and handsome.” Emmett just laughs and holds out his hand, and I take it, aware that I am alone in a nearly dark parking lot with a man I just met today. At the mall no less. I glance at Emmett's round chin and smiling eyes and wonder what Marlena would say. Trusting a man just because he 'feels' like a good person is a nice way to end up dead and buried, Claire. I squeeze Emmett's hand and he smiles brighter, face happy and cheerful and free of bullshit.
    The orange parking lights flicker on above us as we make our way across the cracked pavement. It's strewn with glass and bits of debris that give the place a very postapocalyptic look. It's lonely here, but peaceful, such a far cry from that busy mess that calls itself the modeling industry, those judging eyes. The trees, the sky, even Emmett don't seem to be drawing any judgments whatsoever. It's such a huge relief that I find my guard dropping faster than it should. I hope I don't get myself into trouble out here.
    “ Now, it's been awhile since I was out here, so forgive me if I drag you through a few bushes. I know the way like the back of my hand, but the landscape changes fast here.”
    “ Know the way to where?” I ask as I follow behind Emmett, my hand clutched in his. His skin is warm and smooth, like maybe he doesn't get out much. I'm guessing that he isn't a guy that likes to play a lot of sports or do manual labor which is fine with me; neither of those things interest me. It makes me wonder though. What floats Emmett Sinclair's boat? Is he a gamer? I hope not. An artist? Not quite. I watch his broad back as we start up a steep hill and lick the edges of my mouth. It feels dry, too dry. I wish for water again.
    He isn't judging you, Claire. Maybe you should return the favor? I think as I start to breath heavy, muscles burning, trying to draw on fuel that I don't have. Good, maybe this will burn away some of that extra fat around my thighs. The thought comforts me. That and Emmett's hand wrapped around mine. I like the feel of his fingers against me. They're gripping firmly, but gently, like he's in control but only because I'm letting him. I don't ask where we're going; I don't care. Maybe he's taking me out here to kill me? But I doubt it. Anyway, I can't imagine that I would care all that much. Life is hard, and this place is peaceful … I'm not suicidal, but I'm practical. There are worse places to die.
    “ Just a bit further,” Emmett whispers, keeping his voice quiet and respectful. We're in a different world now, one without honking horns and shouting cyclists, noisy trucks and flashing lights. This place operates under a different set of rules, ones that I'd be wise to respect. “Okay,” Emmett says, stopping suddenly and spinning to face me with a gentle smile on his lips. He licks them unconsciously and pushes up the sleeves of his sweater. “Close your eyes.” I do without question. I like surprises.
    I hear Emmett move around behind me and take in a sharp breath when his hands land on my hips, grabbing with that same, gentle pressure he used on my fingers. The sensation is so wild, so unexpected that I forgot to care about love handles and extra fat and just revel in the moment. That's a rare thing for me. Who is this guy, this Emmett fucking Sinclair, and what does he want with me?
    “ Just follow my lead,” he tells me as he guides me forward. I feel leaves brush my