On His Paintbrush

When I first laid eyes on the curvy brunette, she made me a drink then said I made her wet. I couldn't pass up the invitation. I wanted her to paint me like one of her French boys. Before I walked out of her dinky small town café, I left my card, all black.

Hazel

I turn weird and awkward around attractive men. I'm a nervous sweater, and when Archer walked into my art café that night, he was making me soaking wet. He was stupidly attractive—which caused me to go into excruciating detail about my sweating problem, insult what he had under his fig leaf, and imply I was running a brothel.

My career as an artist was a joke. I was desperately trying to live the #bossbabe life after I couldn't hack it as an artist in New York City and moved back to my small hometown. Now my business is failing. But hey, suffering is inspirational, right?

But then so is Archer. With his model good looks and muscular, tattooed chest, Archer might be the creative, maybe even crazy, idea that I desperately need to save my disaster of a life.