Chapter 13 #2
“Hey,” I yell back, breathing slowly and evenly and hoping the blush isn’t too noticeable. Maybe it’ll look like sun or windburn.
He stands up, running a red rag over his fingers as he watches me approach. My skin tingles in every place his eyes touch, endorphins swimming through my veins like happy little fish. Even if my brain wasn’t fully on board, my body is so reactive to Shiloh he might as well be a drug.
I come to a stop at the edge of the dock, looking down at him.
He squints up at me, running the back of his hand across his forehead to push away his hair.
It flops back over a moment later, the strands too long to be tamed by anything less than a headband.
There are grease stains on the tan shirt he’s wearing, and the rag he’s using on his hands only looks like it’s making his skin dirtier.
I want him so badly it hurts to look at him.
“Coffee?” I ask, holding up the tray.
“Here. Let me help,” he offers, reaching up as I lower the coffee.
He turns to set it down and then comes back to help me, hand grasping my elbow.
I jerk slightly, not having expected it.
I don’t honestly need help coming on board, but I sure as hell have no complaints.
If Shiloh wanted to help me do every single thing I’m capable of doing myself, I think that would be a pretty fine way to live.
I beam at him, giddy with the scratch of his calloused palm against the skin of my elbow. Touch me more, I want to request.
“Thank you. The cups are labeled.” I nod toward the tray, resting on the deck where he left them.
Running a hand along the gunwale, I watch him retrieve them, smiling once he meets my eye again.
He looks a little unsure, probably questioning why I’m here.
When his gaze drops to the white canvas, I belatedly remember the real reason I came by.
To put off the moment when I have to engage in that bit of embarrassment, I ask, “How are you?”
“Fine,” he answers so quickly it sounds practiced instead of truthful. “You? Thank you for the coffee.”
To show just how grateful he is, Shiloh takes a sip from his cup, one eye squinted shut as though it’s too hot.
It’s disgusting how cute this man is without even trying.
I wonder if I’m allowed to say that out loud, given our conversation the other day.
Probably not. We didn’t leave things as anything more than friendship, so grand declarations of attraction probably wouldn’t be warranted.
“You’re welcome. I was bored, so I thought I’d come by and see you on your day off.”
Shiloh smiles at that, a more natural expression than the one he’d been sporting before. I smile back, swallow down the desire to chuck the damn canvas over the side of the boat and into the water, and shift the piece so I can give it to him.
“I made you a lobster,” I tell him, flipping it around so he can see. I feel like a kid showing off their shitty-ass drawing to their mom. My fingers itch to toss it, and I tighten my grip to remind myself that’s not happening.
“You drew that?” he asks, sounding so impressed I can’t help but laugh. I hold it still so he can look closer, bending at the waist to see better as though I’m displaying the Mona Lisa and not a ridiculous Sharpie drawing.
“Yes. With a Sharpie. Don’t get too excited, I was just messing around. Nothing special.”
He glances up at me, frowning. “If you made it, it’s special. Give it here.”
Obligingly, I hold it out, only for him to step back and shake his head.
“Damnit,” he mumbles before holding up his palms, streaked with grease.
Grinning, I continue holding it out to him.
Grease might make it better, honestly. He frowns at me, flapping a hand toward the standing shelter.
“Just put it down over there if you don’t want to hold it. Make sure it doesn’t get dirty!”
“It’s just a stupid drawing,” I tell him, laughing, but pleased despite myself.
“Shut up, Ewan,” he replies while I do as I was bidden. “Did you walk all the way here just to give me that?”
“Yeah, and coffee. I was thinking about taking a hike.” I pause, giving him a solid minute to invite himself along before issuing the offer myself. “Want to come? Since it’s your day off and all.”
Shiloh looks surprised by the offer, thoughtlessly dragging the rag over his fingers.
There is a swipe of grease on his cheek, just above the line of scruff.
My first inclination is to rub it off for him.
My second is to talk myself out of doing that.
My third is to say “fuck it” and do it anyway.
Stepping closer, I raise my hand slowly enough to give him time to pull away.
He doesn’t, but watches me with smooth, sea-blue eyes.
When I brush my thumb over his cheek, I can feel his breath warm on my palm.
“Dirt,” I explain softly, holding up my hand for inspection once I let him go. Silently, he holds the rag out to me, and I wipe my fingers clean.
“Yes,” he says.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I’d like to come hiking.” Clearing his throat, he bends to put away the tools he was using to do whatever it was he was attempting to accomplish with the lobster tank.
My pulse thunders in my ears as I watch him, giddy with the sudden possibilities of the day.
I hadn’t really expected him to come along.
I hadn’t even expected to have the courage to ask.
Bringing him that damn lobster drawing felt like a fair bit of bravery and likely the only amount I could handle in a single day.
But now…now the sun is shining on my face, and Shiloh is agreeing to spend the day with me, and I’m pretty much invincible at this point.
Shiloh makes noise about stopping at home to change, which brooks no argument from me.
I don’t care what we do, don’t even care if we never get to the trailhead.
I just want to be with him. We climb into his truck, and I smile like a loon the entire way to his house, holding the lobster canvas on my lap after Shiloh fussed about it possibly sliding around and getting dirty in the back.
“Just toss it in the bed,” I’d told him, gesturing toward the truck.
“What is wrong with you?” he’d asked crossly before worrying that putting it in the back seat wasn’t any safer than leaving it in the truck bed.
Now, with the damn thing sitting in my lap and earning a furtive glance from the driver every couple of minutes, I’m feeling like a million dollars. This worthless canvas has done more for me than any painting I’ve sold in my entire career. I smile down at it.
“We should name it,” I tell Shiloh, who huffs a laugh. Turning my face, I grin at him, eyes tracking the hair fluttering in the breeze through the cracked window. Shiloh always used to help me come up with names for my work when I first discovered a talent for art.
“Lobster,” he says, mouth pinched at the corner.
“How on earth did you come up with that original title?” I ask sarcastically. He smiles out the windshield.
“Ed,” he tries again.
“Are we naming a baby or a piece of art?” The rumble of his laugh fills the cab of the truck with more light than the sun ever could. Glancing down at the lobster, who is looking more and more lovely every time I see it, I capitulate. “Okay, Ed it is.”
When we get to Shiloh’s house, I follow him in like I belong.
Before he can run up the stairs to his room to change, I request a Sharpie or a marker.
He doesn’t even question but pulls one from a drawer in the kitchen, tosses it my way, and jogs up the stairs.
Resting the canvas down on the dining room table, I flex my calligraphy skills and add a title to the piece.
That done, I sign the bottom corner and put a number the way I always do when I paint something.
I’d been expecting this thing to end up in the trash, so I hadn’t done it before.
But Shiloh’s support, so shiny and new and precious, has given me more confidence than seven years in my trade ever could.
When he comes back downstairs, he looks down at the edited canvas and smiles.
“Ed the lobster,” he reads off, running a gentle finger underneath the words. “You write pretty.”
The words feel like fingers trailed lovingly down my spine, making me want to arch upward into the pressure like a cat.
A drug addiction has nothing on words of praise from Shiloh.
He rests his fingers against the corner of the canvas, peering around the room as though casing the walls.
Realizing what he’s doing, I grin helplessly.
“You’re not really considering hanging it up, are you?”
“Obviously,” he replies. I shake my head, bemused. “Ready to go?”
Honestly, I’d sort of forgotten about the hiking.
I nod anyway, trailing after him as we leave Ed the lobster where he is and head back to the truck.
Shiloh doesn’t bother asking which trailhead I want to visit, but manages to bring us to the correct one anyway.
It does something squirmy to my insides, the casual reminder of how he considers every little piece of me something to hold on to.
Most people would have forgotten by now that the Two Tails Trail is my favorite, but not Shiloh.
He’s like a raccoon, treating every little nugget of information like a shiny treasure and tucking it away for a rainy day.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve come here,” he tells me now, meeting me at the front of the vehicle. Stretching my arms over my head, I arch my back. Somehow, on the nights I do manage to sleep, I do so in a position that always leaves me kinked up and hurting the next day.
“This is the most beautiful place in Siren’s Point,” I tell him.
“T-three isn’t in the Point,” he corrects, smirking. Rocks crunching under our boots, we walk toward the trailhead. Under his breath, he adds, “City boy.”