“Oh. Thank you.” I take them, and our fingers brush for a half second. An electric zing shoots up my arm, stealing my breath for a heartbeat. “They’re beautiful.”
“I wasn’t sure if flowers were too much. Or not enough. Or—” He stops himself. “I’m overthinking this.”
“No, they’re perfect.” I step back. “Come in. Let me just put these in water.”
He follows me inside.
Jessa is standing by the couch, trying very hard to look like she wasn’t eavesdropping.
“Hi, Brody,” she says brightly. “Chloe, I’ll just—” She makes this very pointed eye gesture. Like Wow, he looks niiiiiice. Don’t you think so?
I shoot her a look that hopefully conveys Stop that immediately.
She grins innocently. “Have fun, you two!”
And then she disappears into her bedroom.
Leaving us alone in the tiny living room.
I find a vase—actually a mason jar, because I don’t own vases—and fill it with water. Arrange the flowers. Set them on the counter.
When I turn around, Brody’s looking at the dragon illustration Jessa left on the coffee table.
My heart stops.
“Is this yours?” he asks quietly.
“Oh. Yeah. It’s just—something I was working on.”
He picks it up carefully, his gaze falling over every line, taking it in like some sort of fine art.
The silence stretches.
“It’s incredible,” he says finally.
“It’s just a silly doodle.”
He looks up at me, and his eyes catch mine in that sort of unescapable way. That way that makes me feel seen…and so vulnerable. There’s something in that look—something I can’t quite read. Like he wants to say something. Like he’s deciding whether to say it.
Then he sets the illustration down carefully. “It’s really good, Chloe.”
His voice is so genuine it makes my chest ache.
“Thanks,” I manage.
He doesn’t know it was rejected today. Doesn’t know that publishers think my “creativity and heart” aren’t enough. Doesn’t know that this silly dream of mine just got professionally dismissed.
And I’m not going to tell him.
“Ready to go?” I ask, grabbing my coat before he can ask more questions.
“Yeah. Of course.”
He helps me into my coat—his hands gentle on my shoulders—and I try very hard not to think about how good he smells or how close he’s standing or how my heart is doing that weird flutter thing again.
We head downstairs and out to the street. The Shelby is parked at the curb, gleaming under the streetlights.
“So,” Brody says as he opens the passenger door for me. “How was your Sunday?”
