Kyle bobs his head from side to side. “It could be tough for you to get started, but you are an amazing designer, and your portfolio will speak for itself. It would need a lot of self-motivation to put the hours in every day and meet deadlines.”
I nod.
“The first year or two will be the hardest.”
“While I establish myself?”
“Yes. I would imagine you’re likely to get repeat custom if you do a good job, which you will.”
I rest my head on his shoulder. “I love how much faith you have in me.”
“Always, beautiful. What are your thoughts?”
“I’m scared shitless thinking about it. What if I turn this job down and can’t make it as a freelancer? They’ll think I’m a time-waster and never invite me to interview again. I don’t know what to charge or how I’d approach companies. I wouldn’t be able to rent my own place until I’m getting a regular income. What if my income is never regular?” I turn my face and press it against his shoulder. “It could be the answer to everything, or I could be steering a boat up shit creek without a paddle.”
Kyle rubs my back. “I’ll run along the bank with a spare paddle, just in case. Your parents will too. You wouldn’t be alone, baby.”
“I know my parents would help out. They’d love me to stay in Leeds, but I can’t rely on their generosity forever.”
“It wouldn’t be forever. Only until you’ve got a client base.”
“But how long will that take?”
He shrugs. “How long is a piece of string?”
I lift my head and stick my tongue out before flopping my head onto his shoulder again. “Accepting this job would be safe.”
“Yes.”
“But will I be happy?”
“It’s your dream job.”
“Is it?” I stroke his chest through his T-shirt. “I love you, Sir. I want to be with you.”
“I told you—”
“You’ll move to London in six months. I know what you said, but do you want to?” I look up.
His expression is carefully schooled. “I want to be with you, gorgeous. If that means moving, so be it.”
“But you don’t want to. Not really.”
The muscles in his cheeks flex. “I nearly lost Dad a year ago, which made me painfully aware of my parents’ mortality. So no, I don’t want to move away from them, but I will. London isn’t that far. I drive. We can visit as often as we want.”
“It won’t be the same.”
“No.”
“I don’t want you to end up resenting me.”
“Oh, babe, I wouldn’t.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
“I love you.”
“All this is assuming we survive six months apart.”
