Chapter 20 #2
I lean against the door jamb. She usually keeps an eye on scores, but with how distracted she is, I’m not surprised she hasn’t tonight.
“We did,” I say, and she smiles.
“Good.” She’s barefoot on the hardwood, her toes a navy blue that matches the Jaguars logo on the t-shirt she’s wearing.
Mine. Just like I guessed. She has it knotted at her waist, and I spend a little too long noticing the curve of her hips, the way her leggings make her legs look a million miles long.
There’s a streak of blue paint running down the side of her neck, disappearing into the collar of her shirt.
“Everything else is already at the gallery?” I ask.
She nods. “All but this one. I only finished it tonight. Which, Second Light wasn’t thrilled when I told them. And it definitely isn’t ideal to hang something so fresh. But I had to get it right.”
“They’re worried about it being fully dry?”
She nods. “I did this one in acrylic, so it should be fine. But ideally, it should sit here for three weeks before I move it anywhere.”
The piece she’s studying is one I’ve seen her working on a lot since the wedding. I can’t pinpoint what’s different about it now, but I’ll never question Sarah’s eye.
It reminds me of reviewing game tape—replaying the same sequence over and over again until the mistake finally reveals itself. An untrained eye might never see it. Never recognize the moment things went wrong.
Sarah stretches, propping her hands on her hips as she arches her back, then she tilts her head toward the canvas. “How does she look to you?” she asks.
“How does she look?”
“Her mood,” Sarah clarifies. “What does it look like she’s feeling?”
I study the painting, suddenly nervous that I might disappoint Sarah if I don’t see what she wants me to see, but then she nudges me with her shoulder.
“Stop stressing,” she says. “There’s no right or wrong answer here.”
Easy for her to say, but I keep my eyes on the painting, reading the emotion etched onto the woman’s face.
“She looks…resolute,” I say. “Like she isn’t trying to hide how she feels anymore.
” Like the rest of Sarah’s work, the woman’s face is photorealistic and fills up the middle third of the canvas.
But her hair is a sea of rippling, shifting color.
She turns toward me, her shoulder brushing my arm as she does.
It’s completely accidental—a totally harmless touch.
But it still sends a sharp pang of awareness through me, and I feel a sudden craving to step closer, to pull her into my arms. We’ve been so good since the wedding.
With the exception of all the t-shirts she’s stolen, we haven’t broken the rules once.
But every time I’m around her, it feels like the tension keeps ratcheting up, tighter and tighter.
I’m starting to wonder which one of us is going to crack first.
“That was a good answer,” she says, looking up to catch my gaze. We’re standing close enough for me to see the flecks of gold around the edges of her irises, the freckles dotting the bridge of her nose. “It took me long enough, but I think I’m finally happy with it.”
“It’s amazing,” I say, my voice low. “You should be happy with it.” My eyes move to the streak of paint on her neck, and I can’t keep myself from smiling.
“What?” she says. “Why are you smiling?”
I lift my hand and slide a single finger down her neck, tracing the paint until I reach the hollow above her collarbone.
“Blue paint,” I say. I hook my fingertip around her collar and tug it down just slightly, revealing the rest of the smudge.
“It’s the same color as your shirt.” I lift an eyebrow. “Or should I say my shirt?”
She bites her lip. “Sorry. I know I said I’d stop stealing them. But they’re just so soft and comfortable. And I only paint in this one because you said I could.”
“Wear them all, Sarah. It doesn’t bother me.”
It should bother me. If I had any sense of self-preservation, I’d ask her to follow the rules we made for a reason. But I like the idea of her thinking of me whenever she wears one. Probably too much.
“It’s your own fault,” she says. “If you didn’t smell so good…”
“She says when she pulls them straight out of the dryer.”
“It doesn’t matter!” she says. “They still smell like you.”
I grin down at her. “You aren’t so bad yourself.”
“Whatever. I smell like paint and varnish.”
“Okay, true. But also…honeysuckle? Sometimes oranges. And sometimes roses.”
“You’re taking notes, huh?”
I shrug. “Just noticing. I notice everything about you.”
Her eyes drop, and for a split second, I wonder if I pushed too far. Made the flirting a little too pointed. But then she looks up again, this time with new purpose in her eyes.
“Are you off tomorrow?”
I nod. “Yeah. We have another game on Wednesday, and we won tonight, so we get Tuesday off.”
“Want to help me take this to the gallery?” She tilts her head toward the painting. “They sent a courier over to pick up the others earlier this week, but I promised I’d get this one to them since I begged for extra time.”
“I’d love to help.”
“Good.” She licks her lips. “And you’re still coming to the show?”
“Of course I’m coming. I wouldn’t miss it.” A tiny prick of pain pinches the back of my heart. I wouldn’t miss her show, and I’m really looking forward to being there. But it’s hard to ignore the reminder that she can’t show up for me in the same way.
I know she has her reasons. Nothing about Sarah is selfish—the entire reason she wanted to stay in the States was so she could be here to help her family. They’re at the center of her life, so I don’t think she isn’t coming because she just doesn’t care.
But my brain is having a hard time coming up with a reason that makes sense. And that’s the frustrating part. As much as I would love to have her at a game, I don’t like feeling like there’s a piece of her that I don’t understand and can’t ask about.
“We’ll be out in public,” Sarah says, pulling my attention back to her. Her eyes flash with something that looks like hunger. “At the show. That means the rules will be different.”
“They will be,” I say slowly, heart rate quickening the slightest bit. “We’ll have to touch a lot more. Are you ready for that?”
“Touching,” she echoes, but then she leans forward the slightest bit, her eyes dropping to my lips as she almost whispers, “Kissing.”
She wants it. I know she wants it. So why are we pretending that we have to keep following the rules? I’m about to ask her, but then she takes a deep breath and a giant step backward.
“I should go to bed,” she says, the words fast. “And you should too. You’re probably really tired after your game.”
I swallow my sigh. “Yeah, I am.”
We walk down the bonus room stairs and down the hall together, stopping when we reach my bedroom door. Gordie appears, and Sarah leans down, scooping him into her arms and holding him in front of her like a shield.
She gives me one last look over her shoulder. “Goodnight, Carter,” she says, then she heads across the house to her room, taking my cat with her.
I move into my room and close the door behind me, smiling into the darkness.
I haven’t forgotten the earlier reminder of Sarah’s secrets, but it’s stinging a little less now. Sarah Stone just told me she wants me to kiss her again.
And I don’t plan on disappointing her.