My paint brush slides against the white canvas like butter; smooth and swiftfully. Strokes of beige mixed with orange decorate the blank space in front of me to match his perfectly tan skin.

I glance up to gauge the color of his eyes, but when I do I freeze. My paint brush has lost its function, and the canvas in front of me has seemed to lose its importance as my eyes lock with his baby blues. Ocean waves crash in his iris’ and visions of blue skies in the middle of summer cloud my head. I can see him sitting on a white porch swing, me sitting in his lap as I laugh at something he says. His faded blue washed jeans and my white flowy sundress with dainty cowboy boots. I can see a future.

“Focus” I mutter under my breath, my hand seeming to be weighed down by this wooden utensil in my grip.

“Hm?” his deep timbre of a voice takes me out of my internal dialogue, and I shake my head forcing the unprofessional thoughts of the subject in front of me out of my head. My chin tips up in determination and I start to get back to work, but like a magnet my eyes are forced to drink him up. His miles of skin that lead to the most defined muscles and chiseled jawline, his straight nose reminds me of an ancient greek statue and has me convinced he hopped off the pedestal moments ago to come and sit in this chipped wooden chair in front of me.

A string of profanities circulate around my mind due to the fact that never once in my art career have I let anything take me away from my work. I swirl my brush around in the muddied water, and place it to the canvas until I hear the chair creak.

Slowly my gaze draws up, his brunette wild curls are fallen in front of his face, his opened white button up shirt is rolled at the sleeves, and his legs concealed in khaki pants are open, leaning against the chair in the typical man pose that has my heart racing, rivaling an F1 driver.

I let the brush rest on the easel and advance towards him.

I’ll get to the painting later.