"Four more days."
He nods, his mouth curving in a slow smile. "Four days. Then you're mine in front of everyone."
"I'm already yours."
His eyes darken with barely banked heat and possession, and that raw tenderness he only shows me. His forehead tips toward mine, the space between us charged with everything we can't do in this elegant lobby with the receptionist a few feet away and Serena and her team just in the other room.
"Let's get you home," he says, his deep voice lowering to that tone that makes my thighs want to press together. "I have plans for you that don't involve an audience."
He guides me toward the door, his hand moving from my hip to my behind, that proprietary press of palm against my ass that saysminewithout words. I can hardly wait to be alone with him again.
At the door, I glance back to say goodbye to the receptionist and find Nadiyah is in the lobby now too. She's speaking with the young woman, but her attention isn't on the conversation. Her gaze is fixed on Nick. In her expression I notice that same careful watchfulness I've seen before, sharpened now into something I can't quite read. Intent. Assessing.
She quickly looks away from him and gives me a small smile. "I'll see you on Saturday, Ms. Ross."
I nod. "Bye, Nadiyah."
Nick's hand presses warm and steady against my back as we step through the door and walk out to his waiting car at the curb.
33
AVERY
The box of artsupplies is heavier than it looks.
I hip-check the front door of the Elizabeth Xavier Center and slip through before it can swing closed on me, the cardboard edge digging into my forearm where I've been balancing it from my parking spot in the lot behind the rec center.
"Morning, Ms. Ross." Jason—I think that's what Carla called him last week—a lanky nineteen-year-old with braces on his teeth, greets me as I walk inside. He's new, but then the staff has been growing a lot since the center opened. He starts to rush toward me. "Want me to get that for you?"
"I've got it, thanks. Just dropping this off with Carla for Lita for today's art classes."
The hallway to the art program space is quiet, just muffled conversations drifting out from a couple of the classrooms, my footsteps echoing softly on the smooth floor as I head for Carla's office. Along the way, I pass the mural the summer kids painted, smiling at the tangle of imperfectly rendered hands and faces and abstract shapes in colors, magenta bleeding into chartreuse.A grinning sun exploding with orange and yellow rays, each one a different length. A rocket ship soaring across the sky.
I spot Carla, the art center manager, in the open supply room, bent over a bin of tempera paints with reading glasses pushed up into her graying hair. A retired high school art teacher, she's got the patient, calming demeanor of someone who's been doing this work for decades.
She looks up when my shadow crosses the doorway.
"Avery." Her face creases into a smile. "Wasn't expecting you today."
"I come bearing gifts." I set the box on the nearest table, wincing at the reminder that these should have been here days ago. "These were supposed to arrive last week. I'm so sorry—I had them in my trunk and completely forgot."
Carla waves a hand, the gesture cutting off my apology before it can build momentum. "Honey, it's no problem at all." She crosses to the box, lifts the lid, and her eyebrows rise at what's inside. Sketchbooks of quality paper, heavy enough to take charcoal without tearing, smooth enough for graphite to glide. Drawing pencils in varying grades.
I source these for the kids myself. Nick writes the big checks, handles the center's finances, but this part—knowing what materials make a kid feel like their work matters—this is mine.
"Oh, these are lovely. The kids are going to feel like real artists with these."
"That's the idea."
Carla closes the lid, pats it once. "Thank you for bothering, especially with everything else on your plate."
"It's no bother at all." The words carry weight I don't try to explain. This center. Nick's mother's name above the door. What we've built here together, and what it means that we get to keep building it. As much as my painting fulfills me, visits to thiscommunity center hold a special, tender place in my heart. "Let me know if you need anything else before Saturday."
"I'll do no such thing. You've got a wedding to get ready for this week. Don't you worry about us." Carla's eyes crinkle at the corners. "In a few more days you'll be Mrs. Baine."
I smile along with her, enjoying the little thrill that always accompanies the realization that I already am Mrs. Baine. My thumb brushes the bare space on my ring finger, almost out of habit now. "I'll get out of your hair now, Carla. See you at the wedding."
"Wouldn't miss it for anything."
