Landon froze mid-step, then dragged a hand through his curls, his brow creasing in surprise. “Really?”
“Yeah.” I nodded, feeling surer of myself. It wasn’t like I had experience painting the walls of a diner, but how hard could it be? “Your mom has never been anything but nice to me, and I know how much the diner means to your family.”
He looked at me for a moment longer, like he was trying to decide if I really meant it. Then his expression softened.
“Thank you,” he said, voice lower now, a little rougher around the edges.
Something in my chest pulled tight. Something hot. Familiar. Like the past tugging at the hem of the present.
I turned to the shelves and reached for a pack of rollers, trying to ignore the fact that my hands were suddenly a little too warm.
At one point, we passed a package of fine, expensive paintbrushes—sleek handles, pristine bristles, the kind you only ever saw in specialty shops or art school catalogs. The kind I used to dream about as a kid. Landon stopped short in front of them.
“You should get these.” He plucked the pack from the hook.
I stared at him. “Those are professional grade. Why would we get them for the class?”
“They’re not for the classroom.” He looked at me with a strange intensity that made something flutter uncomfortably in my chest.
“Then what are they for?”
“The art residency at the Chicago Echo Studio.”
He held the brushes out to me, waiting. I didn’t move to take them.
“You never answered my text about it,” he added, quieter now. “I thought maybe you changed your number.”
“I didn’t. Though I did have you blocked for a few years.”
His expression flickered with something akin to disappointment. “Right. Well, I still think you should apply.”
“I’m glad you think that.” I tried to keep my voice light. Detached.
“But…”
“But absolutely not.”
I stepped around him, pulse rising, ignoring the way his gaze followed me like a shadow.
“Kira,” he said behind me. I kept walking. “Help me understand why you won’t at least try.”
His hand grazed my shoulder.
The contact was light, barely there, but it sent a jolt through me. I flinched, stumbling back just as he stepped forward. We collided with a graceless kind of chaos—Landon smacked his head against a shelf with a dullthunk, and I knocked over a display of quills and ink pots that rained down in a cascade of art store doom.
“Damn it,” I muttered, shoving a basket of quills off my lap.
Landon crouched beside me, rubbing the back of his head. “You okay?”
“No.” I moved the ink pots back into place. “It’s a bad idea, Landon. There’s no point in applying to a program I won’t even get into.”
“They’d be insane not to take you.”
My hand throbbed, and when I looked down, a thin line of blood traced my palm.Perfect.
I shot him a look, pulling a crumpled tissue from my purse. “And what then? Quit my job? Start over on a hope and a prayer? Not everyone has the luxury of disappearing and hitting reset whenever they want.”
He didn’t say anything. Instead, his hand twitched at his side—an instinct to reach for me he didn’t follow through on. Itreminded me of a marionette yanked by invisible strings, like he couldn’t control his need to touch me.
