Chapter 16 #2
“Oh, sleep a little bit. Stew in existential crisis. Check my finances and catastrophize.” He makes a jerking-off motion in mid-air. I snort.
“Dramatic much?”
He sighs, turning to face me and resting his butt back against the side of his rental Jeep. After a second of chewing on his cheek, he admits, “I actually wanted to paint yesterday. Felt the itch, you know?”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Well, it’s stupid because the whole point of painting something while I’m here is for it to be fun.
It’s not meant to be a masterpiece.” He huffs, a wry twist to his mouth.
“But there’s no place for me to set up any sort of work area, and I can’t go outside because every motherfucker who drives by will be stopping to snoop. ”
“They would,” I confirm. Ewan Fate sitting in the grass outside the cottage, easel set up and paintbrush in hand, would be enough to stop traffic. “How much room do you need?”
“Oh, not much. I’m just being whiny.” I wait, and after a second, he rolls his eyes before continuing. “But enough room to not knock over a lamp with my elbow every time I move would be preferable.”
“You could use the spare bedroom at my place,” I offer. His eyes pop wide, mouth opening on a soft gasp and drawing my gaze. Shifting, I put a hand through my wind-tangled hair and try not to get distracted by thoughts of what those lips might taste like.
“No, Shi, that’s—”
“You can. Really. Nobody has ever even stayed in that room. We can push the bed to the side, and you can set up your…easel.” I stumble over the word, not even sure if he uses one.
When we were young, he’d just prop the canvases his mom bought him on any available sturdy surface.
He’s probably a little fancier these days. Ewan smiles.
“Sometimes, depending on the size of the canvas, I hang it on the wall and paint standing. Especially now that I have a studio space. When I was in my apartment, I’d use an easel, like you said, and plop a stool in front of it. These are small canvases, though, so an easel works fine.”
“Perfect. My spare room will be great, then.”
Before I even finish speaking, he’s shaking his head.
We’re still in the parking lot of the harbor, the soft sounds of the boats tugging on their ropes as they move with the water and the gulls crying for food a gentle background noise.
I’m in no hurry to get home, and evidently, neither is Ewan.
I step a little closer to him. He’s not wearing the cologne he always has on these days, so he smells more like me than himself right now.
It makes my brain a little crazy, even though smelling like me just means he smells like dead fish and salt water.
I want to rub against him, press myself into every pore so not even that fancy cologne could cover me up.
“Earth to Shiloh,” Ewan says, waving a hand in front of my face and grinning. “Where did you go?”
I hope my face is windburned enough to hide the blush. Here we are having a nice conversation, and I’m visualizing scent marking him like an animal. Sighing, I stuff my hands into my pockets and pull myself together. I’m too old to have sex thoughts in a parking lot.
“Sorry, spaced out for a minute,” I tell him.
“Tired?” he asks, a lilt to the words making them suggestive enough for my brain to immediately picture a bed. I’m not tired at all; I’m horny. A day spent in its entirety in Ewan’s company has frazzled my brain.
“Mm,” I hum. Ewan opens his mouth, but I cut him off before he can keep talking. “Want to grab your painting stuff now and bring it over? I can make dinner while you set up the room.”
He smiles in a way that feels like he’s hugging me, warm and loving. “Really? You’re sure? I don’t want to impose.”
“It’s not an imposition,” I tell him immediately, barely waiting for him to finish speaking before I talk.
My thoughts tumble over one another as daydreams flash through my mind.
Leaving the house early in the morning and coming home to find Ewan there, the smell of him diffusing through my space.
Maybe he’d leave his things scattered about in his messy way—a hoodie on the couch and a sock on the stairs because he never was one for keeping his feet covered.
I could make dinner and leave leftovers in the refrigerator for him so that he has something to eat at midday.
Then I could come home and make him something fresh in the evening, secure in the knowledge that my flighty friend wasn’t forgetting to eat on my watch.
“Okay,” he says now, looking away from me and sounding a touch shy. “Sure, then. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Frankly, I should be the one thanking him.
Little does he know that his presence in my space, even just to utilize the bedroom for a studio, will have us playing house together in my mind indefinitely.
I can’t remember a time recently when I felt this excited to have Roy coming over, and maybe his reluctance to step into any form of permanence is the reason.
He wouldn’t leave so much as a toothbrush at my house, but here Ewan is, half moved in with only the barest pressure from me.
We part with the understanding that Ewan will stop by the Kelpie and pick up his art things before meeting me at my place.
I float more than drive home, gliding along on a happy little soap bubble of joy.
Even though it’s wildly out of character for me to do so, I bring up Oliver’s contact when I’m stopped at a red light.
I call him and put it on speaker, balancing the phone on my knee and wishing, for the first time, that my vehicle was new enough to have Bluetooth capabilities.
“Shiloh?” Oliver answers, sounding nervous, which I suppose I should have been expecting. I never call him.
“Hey, Oli. Sorry to bother you, but I wanted to get a few ideas of things I could make for dinner that might also reheat well for lunch. If you have a second.”
There’s a pause, and I glance down at my phone to make sure it’s still connected.
“What sorts of things does Ewan like?” Oliver asks after a moment, sounding sly and a little bit like he’s laughing at me. Sighing, I tell him.