“With a bunch of little trees,” I say.
“Rowdy, you’re nuts,” she says, swatting my shoulder.
As she walks away, my eyes land on a person who seems frozen to the spot, watching us like someone who’s either about to have a panic attack or ask for an autograph.
“Are—are you, um, Rowdy?”
Long, wavy brown hair frames the prettiest face I have ever seen. Midnight blue eyes. Paint-crusted jeans. A tee-shirt with holes in it.
I know who this is.
Instantly, my world turns upside down.
I know every single person in this town who lives here, except one. And now, I do know her.
“Yeah. And you are?” I have to make sure.
The woman’s throat bobs.
“I’m Riley Hutchinson. Someone said you…wanted to meet me?”
Her hands are clutched together nervously.
A pink tongue darts out to lick her lips, and she blinks rapidly. She’s nervous. And it occurs to me finally that it’s not a great idea to be asking around town about a woman by name. She must think I’m a creep.
Looking at her nervous face, I realize that I can be a lot for some people, and it hits me like a brick.
I give her my most disarming, genuine smile.
“It’s true. I would have slid into your DMs, but you don’t have any social media. So I’ve been creeping on you the old-fashioned way by asking people about you.”
This makes her laugh a little.
I push out the opposite chair with my foot.
She blushes. “Oh, I don’t know.”
“It’s not what you think. I just want to talk to you about your paintings and how much they mean to me,” I assure her.
In fact, my wanting to meet her is about the paintings and what they mean to me. But it’s also the other thing. By hanging the paintings up at my house, and staring at them every day, and slowly getting to know her through our mutuals in town, I have quietly become obsessed with all things Riley Hutchinson in more than just a friendly way. I feel a deep, unfounded connection that has never hit me with anyone else.
But it’s too soon to tell her all that. She looks about as skittish as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. I’m not about to spook her with my true feelings and mushy declarations.
Slowly, she sinks into the chair across from me with her lips anxiously folded between her teeth. Her eyes are not what I expected. They are the darkening sky at the edges of her paintings.
“Oh, I didn’t think…” she starts. “I… I mean, Daphne said you’re a big fan, and when I heard your name, I knew that was you. I don’t mean to say you’re a fan—that sounds really conceited. It’s not like I’m some big, important person. What I mean is I’m really…”
She swallows again and blushes deeper. Her eyes look up at the ceiling as if calling on some deity to save her from drowning. I can’t stand that she feels this way, but at the same time, it’s freaking adorable.
“No. I am. And you are.”
Riley shuts her mouth and tilts her head with a confused look on her face. “You are what, and I am what?”
I try to look casual, cool, and calm, and take a big spoonful of the delicious chunky chicken noodle soup.
“I am a big fan. And you are an important person. To me. And to my dog Panini.”
She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. I have to fight the urge to lean across this rickety little table and do the same with the hair over her opposite ear. The thought of touching her face, brushing my fingertips over her hair—I never cared what she would look like, but now that she’s here, sitting across from me, I’m overwhelmed by how pretty she is. Stunning. Ethereal. Old dead guys wrote epic poems about this kind of beauty.
