"Only if I can also tell them this charcoal is a result of sketching the woman I'd like to call mine all morning. I haven't mentioned it to them yet because we haven't had the conversation and I'm not about to make announcements on social media without your prior knowledge."
"I—you—what?"
"I don't have to tag you if you don't want," I continued. "Business and pleasure can live separately for now."
"For now?" she repeated.
"Until it's professionally convenient for you. Until I'm no longer working under you—in the organizational structure sense, that is. Until you get to work on building some windmills." I turned the page. "Until you let the world see you, Neera."
"And you?" she asked. "Should I allow you to see me, Mr. Guillmand?"
"You should allow me to join you on your voyage, wherever it takes you. I'm a fine traveling companion, as I believe you've noticed."
She considered this, inclining her head in agreement. "You do pack more paintbrushes than pants."
"You say this as if it's a problem," I replied.
She didn't acknowledge my comment, only gazing back at the sunrise piercing the horizon. "We don't even know each other."
"Can you really say that after my cock has been in your ass?"
She ran her hand down her face, groaning. Now, that made for a beautiful picture. My hand could barely keep up with my mind. "Gus."
"Neera," I replied.
"We don'tknoweach other," she repeated. "What if we—if we don't have compatible values?"
"I think we do," I said, my gaze still fixed on the page. "And if we don't, we'll adjust. We'll learn."
"You make it seem as though we have a long history of compromise," she murmured. "Which we do not."
"No, we don't," I agreed. "But we have a long history of yelling at each other and being obscene, and that has to count for something."
"It might," she conceded. "I'm not convinced it counts enough."
"Then I'll just love you harder," I said.
"You do not love me," she said. "I'm sorry, no. Not yet."
"But I will," I replied. "And you will too."
She stared at me as if she didn't understand the language I was speaking—which was possible. I'd been known to slip into Portuguese on occasion. French when I was very, very drunk. But I didn't think that was the issue here. No, I was making bold statements and backing them up with nothing more than a foggy belief that this might beit.
Eventually, she said, "Your residency—"
"I will complete it," I said with a sigh. I did not want to think about the Valley until absolutely necessary. "I imagine it will take you that long to find a suitable replacement. Rather, ten replacements who will deign to fill your shoes and struggle mightily."
"It will take that long to transition Cole," she said, mostly to herself.
"On that count, we agree."
"And then, what?" she demanded, setting her stare toward me. "You follow me from place to place while I—whatever it is I do in this fictional rendition of the future?"
I jerked a shoulder up, continued sketching. "Perhaps." Turned the page. "Perhaps I stay here."
"And what will you dohere, Mr. Guillmand? You enjoy the forests and the shore and the dinners filled with dogs and babies now, but what happens after a few months? When you want to get lost somewhere new?"
"I don't imagine I will," I replied. I stuffed the charcoal in my pocket and tucked the book under my arm. "I think I'd like to build us a nest, sparrow."
