Chapter 11
Iarrive a few minutes early to Audrey’s Paints, scouring the parking lot for Truett.
Part of me can’t believe I’m here before work, thinking of ways to improve Spare Time.
A few weeks ago, I was doing everything just to get through the day.
Now? I’m thinking of the alley’s future.
I can’t help but think how much my father would’ve loved the fact I’m about to give this entire place a desperately needed makeover.
I hope he’d be proud.
Less than three minutes later, a sleek red Porsche glides up beside me. The driver greets me with an enthusiastic wave, his smile warm and bright—enough to melt something deep inside my chest. Truett steps out of his car, and I’m quick to follow.
When I reach him, Truett holds up his phone like a trophy. “Coupon locked and loaded. What would you do without me, Ezzie?”
I shudder at the nickname, but I’ll allow it again. “Be without a forty-percent-off coupon.”
“Tragic. Simply tragic.”
We slip into a silence that’s awkward on the surface but charged beneath it.
Something shifted between us after visiting the bowling alley where Truett and I let each other see pieces we’ve seemingly kept hidden for so long in our individual lives.
It happened after we danced right there in the middle of the lanes, not caring who watched—something I never would’ve imagined myself doing, not in a hundred years.
And the way our hands fit together… like they were always meant to find each other.
“I know it’s a lot before you start your workday, but thank you for meeting me for our second non-date,” Truett says after the silence lingers a little too long.
“When a man invites you to view paint samples, you don’t tell him no.” I smirk, effectively breaking the thick tension between us. I find it easier to let down more of my guard around him, feeling freer than I’ve felt in a long time.
“I only have about half an hour before I need to head to the alley for opening,” I say, wishing we had more time together. Preferably not at a paint store, even if this is only supposed to be a professional relationship. I don’t think I can fool myself much longer about that.
“Thirty minutes is more than enough,” Truett assures me, already steering me through the front door to get started.
The moment we step inside, a sharp, chemical tang hits my nose—strong enough to make me hesitate for half a second. It smells like fresh paint and something harsher beneath it, the kind of scent that clings to the back of your throat, making you feel like you can almost taste it.
The store is small, but every inch of it is packed.
Shelves are lined with rows of paint cans in every brand imaginable, labels facing outward like they’re begging to be chosen.
An aisle off to the side is crammed with supplies—brushes of all sizes, rolls of masking tape, plastic liners—all stacked and hanging in neat, crowded rows.
But the most impressive part of the store is the wall of paint swatches.
It expands across the entire left side of the wall, showcasing every color imaginable.
There’s a large sign above that says, “You choose your color. We mix it for you!” in case anyone had any confusion on how to obtain their desired paint.
I never realized how many different colors of paint there are, until I’ve come face to face with a thousand swatches. Maybe even a few thousand. A person could be here all day and still not be able to go through all they offer.
The thought of sorting through them is overwhelming.
I don’t have the eye for decoration. But after seeing the sleek, galaxy-inspired alley, I have my work cut out for me to restore this place to its former and future glory.
There’s no way I can modernize the alley, not with the miniscule budget I’m working with, but I can update the vintage charm we have in hopes of going from abandoned warehouse to retro throwback.
Truett whistles low. “Whoa, this place is like every interior designer’s wet dream.”
“How do you even start?” I seriously underestimated how difficult this first renovation to Spare Time will be. It’s paint, for fuck’s sake. I shouldn’t have to dig through a thousand shades to find what I’m looking for.
Ever the optimist, Truett already seems to have a game plan and doesn’t seem intimidated by the sheer number of samples. “Let’s start with what we don’t want. Like—” he looks through the paints before pointing at the pink section, “I don’t think you want the alley to be Barbie pink, do you, Ken?”
“Ken?” I arch a brow.
“Honestly, Ezra, your lack of pop culture awareness really depresses me.” He sighs dramatically for emphasis. “You know, Barbie and Ken? Only the most popular couple in all of American history or whatever.”
“I know who Barbie and Ken are. I was just teasing you.” Poorly, apparently.
Truett eyes me like he doesn’t believe me before shrugging. “So, no to pink?”
“No to pink.” I have no hate for the color, but I’d rather not be working in a poor excuse of Barbie’s Dream House.
Without warning, Truett loops his arm through mine, pulling me closer to the samples. His hand squeezes my biceps, and he all but vibrates with excited energy. My body is keenly aware of him and the warmth of his touch. It settles my nerves, and I can’t help but lean into it.
Lucky for me, Truett doesn’t pull away. He seems comfortable on my arm.
“Hmm… what about black?” he suggests, gesturing to the section of black shades.
Black would be cool, but I don’t think I can convince my mom. She’s weirdly averse to the color, especially for decor. Says it can invite evil spirits or some shit, so I shake my head.
“Doesn’t black make the room look smaller? Since Spare Time is already a small alley, it might be best to stay away from it,” I say.
“Huh, yeah, you’re right. Plus, it would look too much like a black hole of doom. Kinda the opposite vibes of what we’re going for.”
“The vibes being?”
“Retro with a modern twist… but on a budget. Right?” Truett tilts his head, looking up at me. From this close, I can smell the spearmint of his toothpaste and the smoky notes of his cologne. He smells damn good.
Focus, idiot!
“Right,” I say, my voice deeper than normal. Then, because I’m a fucking coward, I turn back to the samples and point to the yellows. “No to yellow. Light colors like that will leave too many handprints and scuffmarks on the walls.”
“That’s a good point. No light colors, they are all eliminated,” Truett agrees. “I say we also eliminate browns too. Brown is a shitty color. Literally and figuratively.”
I smirk, raising a brow. “What did you say about brown?”
It takes Truett a second to process my words, but the exact moment realization hits is impossible to miss. His eyes widen, cheeks flushing a deep, almost comical red, and sheer panic flickers across his face. The expression is so priceless that I almost feel guilty for teasing him—almost.
“No! That’s not what I meant! I love brown! Brown is great. Brown is sexy. Brown is—”
“Relax, True,” I laugh, “I’m only teasing. I wasn’t sold on brown either. It’s too similar to what we have now.”
Together, we go through more of the colors, being mindful that our time together is short today.
The elimination process goes faster than I expect, considering there are a lot of colors that might look nice in a tattoo, but not on the alley walls.
Truett has valid opinions on each shade we eliminate, and not for the first time, I’m glad I have him on my team.
We don’t pause until we reach the blue shades.
“This might sound odd, but I like the midnight blue shade.” Truett points to a swatch toward the bottom.
I duck my head to find the color amongst the samples, stopping at a deep galaxy blue.
It’s a rich, dark color, but would complement the walls much better than the pale beige they currently are.
Honestly, any color would be better than that.
It’s dark, but I think my mom would like it as well.
It’s definitely one my father would select if he were here.
“Really? What do you like about it?” All of his reasons for disliking colors have been interesting, so I’m certain he has a reason this color is calling to him. It’s definitely calling to me too.
“It just screams bowling alley to me,” he admits. “But in a good, nostalgic way. Not in a ‘this place is old news’ sort of way.”
It’s strange, but I think I understand what he means.
Spare Time will never be modern, but maybe that’s okay.
It doesn’t need to be. Playing into its old school charm could really make such a drab alley come to life and change the atmosphere completely.
People love nostalgia; we just need to amp up that feeling.
Or maybe it’s just paint, and I’m overthinking it.
“I like it,” I say after a moment, the certainty settling in the longer I study the color. I can already picture it coating the walls, breathing life back into the alley. There’s a lot of surface to cover even if it’s a small alley, but with some help, I could have it done by tonight.
“It’s decided.” I reach for the sample, turning it over in my hands a second longer than necessary before handing it off to be mixed. I risk a glance at him, then look away just as quickly.
“This is going to take me the whole night to paint. Which, by the way, are you busy later?” I’m aiming for casual, even if it comes out a little tighter than I’d like. “I could use the help.”
Truett sighs, tension evident in his expression.
His arm finally falls away from me, and a hollowness settles over me.
“I am busy, unfortunately. I probably should start getting ready once we’re done here.
” He runs a hand through his hair, frustration creeping into his voice.
“I’m heading to a competition. It’s not until tomorrow afternoon, but my father insists on leaving this morning.
” He offers a small shrug, a hint of resignation in his posture.