“Elitist, then. Same thing, really.”

“I’m not elitist.” Bea flicks open one of the small paint bottles that came with our setup and squirts it on the palette board. “I just know what the hell I’m doing without some woman who looks like a Valentine Little Debbie cake and has a baked good’s worth of knowledge about art—given what’s on the wall—telling me what to do.”

I squirt my own paint on the palette, following Grace’s example of blending colors to make skin tone and eye color for each other’s portraits. “Sounds like elitism to me.”

Bea growls, squirting more paint out onto her palette and struggling when she gets to blue. “Dammit,” she mutters, smacking the bottle on the side of our shared table, which holds her wine.

“Bea, careful.”

“Jamie,” she snaps. “I’ve got this—oh!” Blue paint flies out of the bottle and lands with a splat on the left side of my chest. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

I peer down at it. “A lethal strike. Straight to the heart.”

“Hold on. I’ll get some paper towels.” Bea jumps off her stool, takes one step forward, and trips on the table leg. I try to catch her, but her momentum sends her hurtling over my lap, straight into my palette, which flips into her face.

Eyes scrunched shut. Lips sealed. Dripping with paint.

Instinctively, I sweep her into my arms and carry her between our easels, past the other couple, past Grace and her muse. Shouldering open the bathroom door, I snap the lock in place behind me, then start running water.

Bea is silent as I set her down.

“Hang tight,” I tell her.

Once the water is tepid, I step behind her, sweeping back her hair. “Two steps forward and you’re at the sink. You can start rinsing.”

Bea shuffles forward and bends, which has the inconveniently pleasant effect of placing her backside right against my groin. I grab a fistful of paper towels with one hand, wiping the paint from my shirt. After I toss them, I try to step farther back, but I almost lose her hair. “Dammit, Beatrice. You couldn’t have Rapunzel hair.”

She spits as she rinses, keeping paint from slipping into her mouth. “Why would I have Rapunzel hair?”

“Because that way I wouldn’t be standing behind you in a highly suggestive position, trying not to respond.”

“Jamie.” She squints one-eyed at me in the mirror. “I have blue acrylic paint all over my face. I look like a Smurf. You can’t honestly—” Her open eye widens. “Okay, maybe you can. Wow.”

I clear my throat, feeling my cheeks heat. I have no explanation. At least, not one I’m sure she wants to hear.