38. 38
Idon’t bring up the fact that she kissed me and neither does she. The next day Delaney acts as if nothing happened. As if we’re just two people—sort of friends, who happen to be married.
Until—
“I have something to show you.”
We’ve shown each other a lot of us in the past two weeks. I’ve learned a lot about Delaney, and I think it’s rare for either of us to open up the way we have.
I can’t deny her this. Not that I want to. But especially not when she’s been so vulnerable with me.
I wonder if I could deny her anything.
Of course I could.
What a ridiculous question.
“Yeah, anything,” I say, regretting my word choice instantly. I just told myself anything was not on the menu. Man, when Delaney asked me to do this with the one stipulation being that I do not fall in love with her, I never dreamed it would be this difficult.
I swallow and stir cream into my coffee, staring deep into the dark pit of that mug.
“Great. Get ready and we’ll head out.”
“Great.” But I’m unsure if any of this is great. I’m having feelings I’m not allowed to have.
And yet, I’m showered and ready to go in less than fifteen minutes. Reaching for my keys, I have one eye on Delaney. Her hair is pulled to the side in a long braid over one shoulder, just like the day I met her. Her eyes are bright and excited.
Something is definitely up.
“You won’t need those,” she says. “We’re walking.”
I follow her down the stairs, into the gallery, and out the front door. My building sits waiting for me, waiting for all the changes I have planned. Waiting for Lars to give it up. I’m sure I’m the reason he’s causing Delaney so much trouble with her cash purchase.
“Ready?”
“For?” I laugh. “I have no idea what we’re doing.”
Her lips pucker and screw over to the side. “Come on.” She laces her fingers through mine, and we walk out into the warm spring sunshine.
We cross the street, right over to the new studio.
“Did Lars finally give it up?”
“Something like that,” she says, winking at me.
Every now and then, I am brought back to reality. Lane Jonas just winked at me. Delaney is known all over the place for her music, for her ability on the bass guitar, for her voice—and she’s standing here with me, holding my hand.
And, oh yeah, she’s married to me.
I blink, trying to bring myself back to reality. The fact is, I’m not imagining the smoothness of her skin or the length of her fingers. Or the callouses on two of her fingertips. I’m not imagining the sweet scent of roses in the air, though there isn’t a garden anywhere near us.
She is reality.
We stand in front of the doors—all blacked out with paper or paint, I’m not sure which. When did Lars put that up? We can’t see inside at all. He’s covered the best part of this place: the windows.
Delaney releases my hand, digs into her purse, and holds out the key. “She’s officially yours.”
“Officially? As in, we’re done with Lars?”
“All done.” She bobs her head from side to side. “On this end, anyway. He’s still your landlord.”
I turn the key and step inside, my heart pounding as if this too is too good to be true. But Delaney and this building are both very tangible, each right beside me. The lights are dim, and yet the space feels different. It doesn’t smell like dust anymore. In fact, it smells like new paint and strawberries. Is that a thing?
I’m squinting and staring when a ripping noise sounds just behind me. Light spills into the room, giving the space new bones. Delaney tears away at the black paper covering the windows and doors, letting the sun stream through.
The space is different. There’s a wall—right where I showed Delaney that I needed one. And the walls are blue and crisp.
I walk over to the next picture window lining the east side of the wall and rip the paper from the glass.
“I had to keep the place dark so you wouldn’t see the renovations happening,” she says.
“Wait. You?” I turn to face her. “You did this?” Paint, stain, the wall, the flooring—it’s all in new condition. I shift in a circle, taking in the space. There’s room for my students to learn and mounds of wall space to display, just opposite the floor to ceiling windows. I jog to the new wall in the middle of the room and peek through its open doorway. There’s space for me to work, double what I have now in this one section of the building.
“I know I’m at my two-week max,” she says, leaning against the door frame. “But I wanted Walt to get his lesson here sooner than later.”
My heart pounds in my chest. I love my work, the craft of creation, the blessing of painting. But I love to teach even more. My students—from a full class to the one-on-one lessons—are where I find my joy. Art is my job, but for them, it’s a gift. A gift I experience whenever I teach. One that I get to give them. They help me keep passion and perspective every single day—and this space, this beautiful place, is only going to amplify that.
My eyes blur with unshed tears. I start for her, knowing I shouldn”t but unable to help myself. I scoop her up, hold her tight, and bury my head in her neck, taking in the sweetest sensation my body has ever experienced—roses and warmth, softness, and curves.
Delaney.
I am in so much trouble.
“No one has ever done anything like this for me before.” I swallow, memorizing the feel of her. “Thank you, Delaney.”
Reluctant, I pull back, my lips grazing her neck as I set her back on her feet. There are tears on her cheeks. She nods her welcome, unable to speak. It takes everything inside of me to rein in my self-control and not gather her back into my arms. I am so tempted to return the gesture she began last night.
A joyful laugh spills out of her. “Come on! We have work to do.”
We spend the next several hours moving my current studio into my new one. Delaney adds a decorative touch to the already warm indigo walls and gray cement floor. We laugh and talk, and for a short time, I forget that our relationship is a bargain. For a moment, in my head, she isn’t famous and I’m not a nobody. We really are together, and the idea of marriage between us isn’t something laughable.
“Do you like Chinese?” I ask. We’ve already missed lunch, so we might as well have an early dinner.
“Yeah. But you better order a little extra. I invited a few people over.” Her eyes go wide, and she presses her lips tight. They’re pretty and pink and silently say they have a secret.
I scoff out a laugh. “Who do you know here?”
“Your family, silly. I knew you’d want to share this with them.” She walks to the middle of the spacious room, her sandals tapping on the cement floor. “This place has great acoustics.”
“Yeah?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Then, without reservation, she opens her mouth. She sings. And I think maybe an angel has graced us. Her voice is sweet and high and sounds so different from what I’ve heard from her in my headphones the past few days. But then, there’s no guitar or piano, and the beat of this song is slow without her regular rock anthem. “It was summer. But it was cold. The day he went away. Mmm-mmm.”
I don’t know the lyrics. I don’t know the tune. And I’ve listened to every Judys song ever recorded in the last two weeks. I’ve never heard this before.
I stand frozen, watching, heart pounding. I’m listening as her voice rises and falls, bouncing off the walls with the sad, soulful lyrics.
When her voice and tender cry go quiet, I am dizzy. The silence is tangible.
“What was that?” I say.
Her cheeks bloom pink as her eyes find mine. “Just something I’ve been working on.”
“It’s sad,” I say.
“It is.”
“It’s good.” I walk toward her, slow, afraid my angel will disappear.
She brushes a stray hair behind her right ear. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I stand in front of her, cupping my hand to her cheek. I’ve never wanted to kiss her so badly. As if she’s cast a spell over me. “That’s your folk?”
Her throat bobs with a swallow as her eyes fall to my lips then dart up to find me again. “Yes.”
“I don’t think you need me, Laney. You’re going to be fine no matter what the press decides to say about your image. That—that was—” My nostrils flair with my exhaling breath. “Mesmerizing.”
She tilts her head, peering up at me, her eyes drinking me in as if there were nothing left in the world to see. Could she possibly see me as I see her—unplanned, unpredictable, and absolutely captivating?
My body is successfully convincing my head that we’ve known one another longer than two weeks. That the chemistry bubbling between us is very real—and not this dangerous game of pretend. That I’m somehow worthy of her.
“Knock, knock!” a voice calls—no, my mother calls—as the doors to the studio push open.
Delaney blows out a breath she must have been holding. “So, that’s where she gets it.”