"No. Those letters are just for you and me. I have no desire to exploit your emotions like that. I shouldn't have made one the first time around."
Even with her acknowledgement of it, I'm still vulnerable. She knows exactly how I feel about her, but I have little idea as to how small or large her feelings about me are and I need to know.
"When did you start –" I search for a suitably benign word, aiming for the lowest hanging fruit so I can work my way up. "– fancying me?"
Bess takes a deep breath and exhales with a sigh, which is only marginally alarming. "I don't know. I mean, I know the moment I realised it, but I don't know when my subconscious made the decision."
"Was it at the auction?"
"No. It was when I told you the sculpture wasn't you – at the library the day after everyone saidA Lettered Manlooked like you. I had to check if there was something there and when I saw you sitting at your desk, doing something totally mundane, I knew."
I grin. "You thought me typing an email was sexy?" Deepening my voice, I say, "With my masculine fingers and my powerful keystrokes."
She laughs. "I think it had more to do with just seeing you. You could have been trimming your nasal hair and my body would have reacted."
"Really?" I say thoughtfully. "I mean, I'm a librarian. Universally recognised as the single hottest profession after shirtless firefighters. It was only a matter of time."
"It could be that." She laces her fingers with mine. "Or it could be because you make me laugh, and you're kind, and smart, and don't suffer fools, and you listen and understand, and you make me laugh."
"You already said that."
She smiles. "I particularly like that trait." Extracting her hand, she traces my eyebrow. "I miss you when you're not around, Ed. It's...turned into something of an ache recently."
I kiss her. Very softly. And when she whispers, "I love you," against my lips, a molten warmth pumps into my veins with every beat of my heart.
This.
This is undoubtedly the moment I'm the happiest I've ever been.
Chapter forty-six
Bess
AsEdandIapproach the gallery a low-slung, expensively curved car races along the street towards us going far too fast for the urban speed limit.
On his way past, the driver, Jason Travers, grins at me and offers a middle finger.
It's not the gesture that surprises me, or the speed at which he is recklessly driving. It's the car.
"What's his problem?" asks Ed.
"Did you see who it was?"
"No."
"Someone who shouldn't be able to afford a car like that in any universe."
We turn into the laneway that runs adjacent to the building.
"I don't think I've ever seen one of those in the flesh," Ed says. "Mercs and Beemers are two a penny around here, but not Maseratis."
"No. And definitely not for the calibre of the likes of him."
"Who was it?" asks Ed as he pushes the door to the workshop open and holds it open for me.
I walk in to see we are the last ones to arrive at Tuesday Night Art Fight, which isn't surprising given that our second day of after-work bedroom activities turned into a dedicated study session and then a desperate need for sustenance.
All conversation stops as we enter.
