Bonus Epilogue
Val
I think I’ve given Winnie and James enough time to kiss and make up. Or make up and kiss. Either way. He pulled up outside my studio fifteen minutes ago, so surely that’s enough time?
It’s killing me to pace inside the studio, both because I want to congratulate them on finally figuring out they belong together, but also because I have twenty minutes to get paintings loaded up in the truck and to the gallery.
I’m barely going to make it as is. And Mr. Silver, the gallery owner, gave me a tiny window of time, I think honestly because he doesn’t want to carry my pieces in the gallery at all.
I got the impression this is one of those things where he’s just humoring me.
Actually it was more than an impression. Mr. Silver all but said he was doing so as a favor, which can only mean Tank asked him. Probably because Lindy asked Pat who asked his dad. That’s the kind of thing the Grahams do. The kind of things friends and family do for each other.
And honestly, it’s because of this, because I don’t want to disappoint anyone else that I’m actually considering showing my work at all.
I know Lindy and Winnie think I’m just nervous or that I’m not confident in my work. They think with enough mama-birding they can push me out of the nest to fly.
But they don’t know how it feels to paint, to lose myself in my work, only to have it torn to shreds by critical words. Especially from someone I thought I cared about, who I thought cared about me.
My stomach clenches, and I look at the clock again. I’m out of time.
I burst through the garage door with one hand covering my eyes, making as much noise as possible to warn Winnie and James. From between my fingers, I see them pull apart, looking flushed but blissfully happy.
I’m shocked into stillness by the sight of James Graham actually smiling. Wow . I’m floored less by how handsome he is and more by the intense stab of envy I feel.
That. I want that.
Maybe without the cat in a bow tie.
Wait—why is there a cat in a bow tie?
“Are y’all done making up and making out yet?” I ask, grinning.
James chuckles. And looks at Winnie both like he wants to completely consume her and die fighting to protect her.
There’s that stomach squeeze again.
Maybe it’s an ulcer.
“No,” he says, as Winnie says, “Not even close.”
Disgustingly adorable.
“Yay! I’m so happy for you!”
“Then why don’t you uncover your eyes?” Winnie asks.
“Right.” I drop my hand. “I can be happy for you while also not wanting a front row seat to all this …” I’m not about to mention the sexual tension hanging like a fog between them.
“ Anyway . I’m really sorry to do this right now, but I need to borrow your muscles and your truck.
And since you and Winnie are officially back together, I can ask, right? ”
James narrows his eyes at Winnie. “Are you just using me for my truck?”
“And your muscles,” she deadpans.
I don’t have time for their flirting and banter, so I clap my hands before they start kissing again.
“Great. I’ve got three big canvases that I need to get downtown to the gallery. Like, now .”
* * *
My friends have entirely too much confidence in me. Too much unconditional love. Too much faith.
It’s why I’m sitting alone on the sidewalk. Winnie and James helped unload and then left, so sure I wouldn’t need help getting back to the studio with my paintings.
Paintings Mr. Silver dismissed after examining them with a pinched expression for less than five minutes.
One dimensional, he said. Uninspired. Amateur.
It’s the last one that has me blinking back tears, wrapping my arms around myself.
I should text someone. James and Winnie can’t be too far. But I want to give them a moment to enjoy finding their way back to each other. Mari’s at the diner, dealing with the dinner rush, and Big Mo will be at the grill. Lindy and Pat are my best bet—just a block or two away and with Pat’s truck.
I just need to pull myself together. I shiver. If I don’t freeze first.
The door opens beside me before I can even think about hiding, and then Mr. Silver is assessing me, the same way he did my paintings. I know how I look: my hair knotted in a messy bun, my coveralls paint splattered, my feet bare.
Because, yeah, I didn’t happen to remember shoes. And Winnie and James were both too busy making googley eyes at each other to notice.
“Are you crying?” he asks, sounding as disgusted as he looks.
I almost laugh. “Maybe.”
He frowns down at me, while I wipe my eyes. “You must have a thicker skin if you think you can make it.”
Now, I do laugh. “Believe me, I’ve tried to grow one.”
My skin is rice-paper thin. Easily torn. Totally transparent. And no amount of self-talk or podcasts on bettering myself have made it an iota thicker.
Mr. Silver’s gaze snags on my feet, which are numb. My toes are practically curled back into myself.
“You have no shoes?” He seems surprised. Did he really not notice? I honestly thought my disheveled appearance was part of the issue. For all the talk about artists being wild and free, you still need to be professional in professional settings. Like him—in a crisply tailored suit.
“I forgot,” I say, feeling lame as his frown deepens.
I hear the engine of a truck before I notice the lights cutting through the darkness. A familiar truck pulls up to the curb, and my stomach sinks.
Not now.
Mr. Silver glances at Chevy as he climbs out of the driver’s side. “Do you know this man?”
I nod, and this seems to be enough for him.
“Come see me tomorrow. No paintings. Just you. And wear shoes.”
I’m still blinking in shock as he stomps away on expensive shoes, leaving only the man I’ve tried so hard not to fall in love with for basically as long as I can remember.
“Hey. You look like you could use a lift.”
His smile is easy, but as always with me and only me, guarded. As if he knows just how I feel and doesn’t want to lead me on. How can he not know? My thin skin doesn’t hide my emotions either. Everything goes straight in and out like a sieve.
“Yeah, I could use a lift back to my studio. If you don’t mind.”
Chevy offers me a hand, and I let him pull me to my feet. He lets go almost immediately, sliding his hands casually in the pockets of his jeans.
He looks … nice. I mean he always does, but he looks like he dressed up for something. Or someone . Oh, please, don’t let it be a date. I glance at the truck again, relieved to see the cab is empty.
“Well, let’s get these loaded up before you freeze in your bare feet, Tiny.”
I bite my lip, turning toward my painting so he doesn’t see the smile I’m trying to hide.
Every so often, Chevy calls me Tiny. Partly because I’m five-foot-two.
And I think because of my full name, Valentina.
Everyone calls me Val, but when I first met Chevy, a handsome, flirtatious boy a few years older, he said he was going to call me Tina.
It morphed into Tiny, and I don’t hate it.
I actually pretty much love it.
As sad as it is, I’ll take even the smallest thing Chevy is willing to give me. Because I know this small thing is all I’m ever going to get from my best friend’s brother.
Unless …
I watch as Chevy loads the paintings up in the bed of his truck, then opens the door for me. “Hop in, Tiny. Let’s get you home.”
I stare at his face a beat too long. Chevy’s smile is friendly, nothing more. The physical distance he keeps sends signals that scream PURELY PLATONIC.
And maybe it’s the raw emotional state I’m in after dealing with Mr. Silver, but some part of me has had ENOUGH. Before I climb into the cab, I step wayyyyy up on my tiptoes and press my lips to Chevy’s cheek. I linger, letting his sandpaper stubble scrape my tender skin.
He has completely frozen, like my kiss is some kind of reverse fairy-tale magic, turning the prince to stone rather than waking the sleeping princess.
“Thanks, Chevy,” I whisper, my lips brushing his jaw. I trail one hand up his arm, stopping at his shoulder and giving him a quick squeeze before I lose all my courage and hop in the car.
He stands there, long enough for me to buckle in. When I glance over, his jaw is slack, his eyes blinking rapidly.
I did that. I DID THAT!
I bite my lip, and the movement attracts Chevy’s gaze. His jaw snaps closed, and he slams the door, walking the long way around the back of the truck like he needs the recovery time.
If I let it, the status quo will just keep status quoing along, and Chevy and I will keep being what we are to each other. Friends, with the whole friend of sibling thing thrown in.
Unless … I decide I’m tired of waiting and hoping and pining and decide to finally—FINALLY—go after what I want.