10. Good Art is Supposed to Do That #2
It’s like looking into my own brain. All the… everything in there. It’s all tangled together, bright, very happy—sometimes too happy. It feels suffocating sometimes. I’m always the chipper one. I don’t get to be sad (and when I am, I do it wrong anyway—always too much).
“It’s a lot,” Grant says eventually. My heart knocks my ribs. “But it’s not too much.”
I feel my face flush, and I refuse to look at him. I can feel that his eyes aren’t on me—I can sense his gaze, such a heavy thing that it is, and I know just by trying to feel it that it’s still on the painting, not on me.
“Is it making you feel something?” he asks, voice softer now.
“Yes,” I whisper, but that’s all I can say. Something heavy is climbing up my throat, and the bridge of my nose stings.
“That’s all right,” Grant says quietly. “Good art is supposed to do that.”
We carry on exploring the rest of the show until we’ve seen every painting, and we end up back at the front doors.
“I’ll take you home,” Grant says, and I don’t have the energy to protest, scraped out as I feel. I meant it when I told him I love art shows, but it does leave me feeling a little raw afterward, most of the time. Like he said, though—good art is supposed to do that.
We say goodbye to Liv when we catch her flying by, reapplying a wall hanging to a canvas, then head back out to Grant’s car. The sun has set, casting navy and gold over the line of the city and the coastline in the distance.
It’s beautiful here.
I’ve moved around a lot—not really knowing what I wanted to do and where I wanted to stay—and I can’t say that this is a sure thing, because I almost never know that.
But it’s the surest thing I’ve known so far, and I think that’s a good sign.
When Grant pulls up outside my apartment, I open the door to get out, but he cuts the engine, making me pause. I glance at him. “What are you doing?”
He quirks a brow, grabs his keys from the center console, and gets out of the car without a word. When he rounds to my side, he tugs the door all the way open and leans over, popping the release on my seatbelt.
When he straightens, he lingers with his face a little too close to mine.
I could close the distance and kiss him, but I don’t. I don’t want to misread this. I don’t want to be the one to make the first move in case I push him too far. I would never want to do that.
He backs up, but only just far enough for me to step out of the car.
“I’m walking you to the door,” he says, closing the passenger side door behind me.
“You don’t have to do that.”
He scoffs a little sound, mumbling something under his breath.
My mouth quirks. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
He blows out a breath as we approach the outer door, then steps up in front of me and shakes his head. “I was just saying you must have dated some real losers if you’re not used to being walked to the door.”
I chuff a laugh. “I thought you said we can’t date.” I search his face. “Was this a date?”
“No,” he says flatly, but mirth lingers in his gaze.
“I didn’t take you for a game player, Doctor King.”
His eyes darken. “I’m not playing games with you, Miss Hart.”
“No?” I ask, digging through my bag for my keys. “Then why make a comment like that?”
“Because it’s important for you to know that any guy you do date—the bare minimum should be walking you to your door.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks for the memo.”
Before I can turn toward the door, he grabs my wrist. I freeze, then so does he.
“Hey, look, I—” He swallows, cutting himself off. “Thank you. Really. It feels… kind of awful to say it, but that helped take my mind off things for a little while.”
My brow furrows. “Why would it make you feel awful to say that?”
“Because Sera is my daughter,” he says quickly, releasing my wrist. “I shouldn’t be trying to take my mind off her.”
“Yes, she is your daughter,” I say gently, reaching out to catch his hand. He doesn’t pull away, but I feel his pulse jumping under my fingertip where it brushes his wrist. “But it’s not Sera you’re trying to take your mind off, is it?”
His throat works with a swallow, but he doesn’t speak.
“You’re you,” I say, even as he averts his gaze. “You’re your own person. You do remember that, don’t you?”
His jaw works now, probably trying to hold back all the things he wants to say—most of which I suspect would be arguments.
“I understand that you’re her dad first, and that’s okay.
It’s healthy, even—survival of the species, and all that.
” I huff a laugh. “That’s what my sister would say, anyway.
But it’s okay to put yourself first. Encouraged, actually.
Like when they say you should put your own oxygen mask on before you help someone else.
There’s a reason they say that.” I clear my throat, because I know I’m rambling, but I’m really trying to hammer the point home, because I think it’s genuinely something he isn’t taking on board.
“You can’t pour from an empty cup, Grant, and Sera deserves to have you know that for yourself. ”
He looks at me for a really long time. It feels like eons, although it’s probably only minutes. Then he soughs out a breath, squeezes my hand, and lets go.
“Thank you,” he says again.
That’s when I decide to go for it. Or, more accurately, my body decides—because I don’t register any cogent thought in my head before I’m popping up onto my toes and pressing a kiss to his cheek.
The stubble of his beard rasps under my lips, and I linger longer than I should.
“Thanks for making sure I get home safe.” I take a step back before I do something I can’t take back.
I want to do something I can’t take back, but I know he isn’t in the place for that now, and I can be patient.
“Will you please let me know that you get home safe, too?”
He chuffs a sheepish laugh, trying to play it off, but I can see the shakiness at the edges of his movements. “I promise,” he says as he turns back toward his car.
I wait by the door for him to get back into his car, only opening it when he starts the engine. I lift a hand in a wave, then turn to go into my apartment. It’s quiet upstairs, and I grab a pitta and some salad and feta from the refrigerator to make something simple for dinner.
After about ten minutes, my phone pings, and I turn it over to see I have a voice note from none other than Professor Daddy.
I quirk a brow as I hit play, dropping the phone on the counter as I slice my pitta in two.
“Hey,” Grant’s gravelly timbre rumbles through, low and bassy even through my tinny phone speaker. “Just wanted to let you know I got home safe—as promised.” He pauses. “Thanks again for tonight, Neve. It really helped.”
I swallow hard. His using my name does things to me, but I try to keep my cool as I walk over to the sofa and sit down with my dinner. I hit record on a voice note as I lean back into the corduroy. “Thanks for letting me know, Professor Daddy. Sleep well.”
I smirk as I hit stop, watching the little icon as it flips over to received, then read.
Within moments, a message pops up.
Professor Daddy:
You should watch that mouth of yours.
Me:
or what?
Professor Daddy:
I’ll have to find another use for it.
I quirk a brow, grinning down at my phone. A message isn’t going to do justice, so I send back another voice note. “Well, don’t make me wait too long, Doctor King,” I murmur, intentionally husky. “My mouth is good at a lot of things.”
Professor Daddy:
That’s what I’m afraid of.
Goodnight, Miss Hart.