⋅•⋅⊰∙∘⋆✼♡✽⋆∘∙⊱⋅•
"Well, that's settled," Mr. Fairchild declared, his tone carrying the weight of someone who had just sealed a massive business deal, rather than dragging his bewildered assistant into a faux mating scheme.
He turned back to his easel as if we hadn't just turned our lives upside down in this sunlit greenhouse, picked up his brush once more, and started adding those final, delicate touches to the orchid's petals, each stroke so precise, almost reverent, as if he were breathing life into the canvas.
Fuck...he's so hot.
I watched him for a moment, still trying to wrap my head around everything, my heartbeat doing a rather embarrassing tap dance against my ribs. The way the sunlight danced off the beads of sweat on his temples, the crease of concentration between his brows, and the casual confidence of his paint-specked fingers were all a bit distracting.
