“Name it.”
“Don’t make me the poster boy.”
I grin against his chest. “Deal. You can be the grumpy guy in the corner pretending not to care.”
“That I can do.”
I tip my head back to look at him. His face is softer now, the edge sanded down just enough to let the man underneath show. “So… you’ll help?”
His eyes drop to my mouth. Linger.
“I already am,” he says.
My pulse skids. “Good.”
His thumb brushes my side, slow and deliberate. “Firefly?”
“Yeah?”
“You ever pull something like this again without warning me…”
“Yes?”
“I’ll probably still show up,” he admits.
I laugh, bright and relieved, and he smiles despite himself.
We stay like that for a few more seconds, bodies locked together in the middle of my half-finished studio, paint and light and possibility all around us.
Not fixed.
Not broken.
Just right here.
Right now.
Chapter Eleven
Boone
“You okay?” she asks quietly, minutes after running my day with her charity festival. Seconds after ruining my heart with her stubborn honesty when I confronted her about it.
I shrug. “Depends.”
“On?”
“Whether you want honesty or jokes.”
She sets the brush down. “Honesty.”
That lands heavier than I expect. “I’m not great at feelings.”
“I know,” she says. “But you’re trying.”
I drop down onto the floor, settling her beside me, legs stretched out, our backs against the couch. The stupid thing digs into my spine immediately.
“This couch is an act of violence,” I mutter.
