Adrian couldn’t refute that. He gazed at the painting, memorizing the small details of the piece in case he didn’t see it again in person.
Mike patted him on the back. “You know, I’m happy to sell as many fruit bowls as you like. I wanna convert the basement to a rumpus room this year, because my kid’s turning fourteen. He’s loud, stays up all night... And the fruit bowls sell, which is great. But I’d also like to see some more portraits, if you can manage it. From my perspective, there’s a lot of people, a lot of artists, ready to tell you the world is hard and scary. And fine, that’s important. We need to know that. But joy’s important too. If I could paint, I’d want to make art about joy.”
Adrian closed his eyes. That was what he ought to have offered Caroline. He’d never even told her that loving her made himhappy.
“I’ll try,” he managed to tell Mike through his aching throat.
“You’re a good kid,” Mike said, thick palm thwacking him between the shoulder blades. “Now get out of my gallery. It’s late. Go home and tell your girl you’re going to sell some paintings.”
“Yes,” Adrian said, though that was the least of what he needed to tell her. He loved her, and that wasn’t a tragedy. No matter what happened, it was a wonderful thing that he’d fallen in love with her. He regretted a lot of things in his life, but not a single moment that he’d known her.
Mike wrinkled his nose. “Just make sure you take a shower first.”
Chapter Eighteen
Caroline almost tripped over Adrian on her way to the lobby of her apartment. He was sitting next to the elevator, long legs stretched out across the hall. She yelped and windmilled back as she came around the corner. She’d been moving at a good speed because she was late, as per usual, and now she was flustered, also sadly usual.
Adrian scrambled to his feet, and Caroline had a brief moment of unworthy appreciation for how much of a wreck he looked. He was as dressed down as she’d ever seen him, in paint-splattered jeans and a faded T-shirt, a layer of fine copper stubble adorning the perfect line of his jaw. But it was the dark circles under his eyes that made her feel better about the twenty minutes she’d just spent determining which hoodie made her look most serenely composed.
She spread her arms in silent demand. She’d expected some kind of response after returning all his paintings, but not this one.
“You said, quote, around eight, at the Dunkin’ Donuts by your apartment.” His tone was careful.
Caroline frowned at him. The previous day he’d called four times before he finally left a message asking if she would meet him for coffee somewhere. He’d accurately described her single text back.
“Which is where I was going. And it’s only—” Crap. Eight thirty, already. It had turned out that Caroline did not own athleticwear that appropriately communicatedI’m doing fine, and she’d gone through a number of clothing changes. She scowled, which only made Adrian’s expression turn very stoic.
“This is Boston. There are at least four Dunkin’ Donuts within a quarter mile of your apartment.”
“You could have asked which one.”
“I didn’t want to push my luck.” He said it lightly, but his sad, worried eyes gave Caroline a pang of sympathy. She firmed the line of her mouth, summoning her willpower to quash the feeling. Putting her hands on her hips, she looked down the hall to her apartment.
“I guess you might as well come in since you’re already here,” she said, trying to feign annoyance. She was very reluctant to go back to the last place she’d seen him, and she’d already mentally prepared for talking to him in a busy coffee shop. She’d be able to escape from the coffee shop if things started going pear-shaped, but she worried that she didn’t have the heart to throw him out of her apartment again.
What was she afraid of? That he might beg her to accept more free sex and declarations of love? That probably wasn’t his agenda since it had taken him over a week to call.
Without waiting for his agreement, she walked back to her door and unlocked it, leaving it open behind her.
Her apartment wasn’t as neat as the last time he’d seen it—the only time he’d seen it. She had a lot of shopping bags cluttering the living room floor, and her walls were now bare. Tamsyn’s show would run for another two weeks before Caroline might expect to receive her bird painting.
Adrian shut the door behind him as Caroline rustled through her shopping bags.
“Here,” she said when she found the box she wanted, thrusting it against Adrian’s chest. “Do you know how to use this?”
He examined her new French press. One of the Food Network chefs had mentioned that it was the best way to brew coffee.
“I think I can figure it out,” he said hesitantly.
“Good. The coffee is in the freezer.”
Caroline spun on her heel, walked determinedly to her couch, and plopped herself down, wishing her heart wasn’t beating so fast. She turned the TV on and pretended to be deeply invested in the perils of the annual wildebeest migration as Adrian opened cabinets and banged around her kitchen.
“Do you own a teakettle?”
“For coffee?”
“To heat the water.”
