I whimper.
“It’s not that bad. But candles will ease your mind.”
Leading me into the living area, Roman lights two pumpkin spice candles along the way. Where did he get those? He’s in no hurry. He isn’t worried about Fran and Rosalie deciding we aren’t home in the two minutes he takes to light the candles.
“I’ll get the door,” he says. “You’ve got your portfolio pulled up?”
By portfolio, he means the album in my photo app titled “Stella’s Pottery.” I hold up my phone and give it a little shake in answer.
I stand straight next to our monstrous tree and pull in a breath through my nose, reminding myself that creating and offering my services as an artist is what I’ve always wanted to do. Despite the whole being fired from one little job, fretting parents, and a near-empty bank account. Because Roman is right. This truly is what I want to do.
Female chatter sounds from the open door. I brush my fingers through the length of my hair and breathe. I’ve got this. Roman is my confidence today.
Fran Fairchild and her bobbed brown hair peek around Roman to see me. She waves, a wide grin on her pretty face. “Hi, Stella!”
My jaw clenches, but I tell my mouth to smile. “Hi.”
“Rosalie’s here too.” She peers back at her friend, following in behind her.
“Hey, Rosalie.”
“This place is so cute,” says the tall blonde. “You’re not too far from town, and yet you’re alone.”
“Exactly,” Roman says. “You’re our first guests.”
Fran grins at him. “That’s nice, Roman. You aren’t nearly as grumpy as Callum says you are.”
“Oh, believe me,” he says, “I am.”
The pair laugh, but Roman is serious. I’m not the only one who needs to stop putting on a show. Roman isn’t this grumpy oaf that he’s made everyone believe he is. And while he’s busy shoving confidence down my throat, I’m going to help him remember that.
“You need to look at Stella’s portfolio,” he says, nodding his head at the phone still clutched in my grasp.
“Oh, yes. Please.” Fran claps, her eyes beaming.
“Sit down,” Roman says, already channeling his friendliness. But it’s me he looks at. And his earnest expression isn’t for Fran, but mustering confidence into each of my limbs—at least, that’s his agenda.
Rosalie sits, and Fran squishes next to her, so as not to sit on a tree branch.
“That’s one huge Christmas tree,” Rosalie says.
“For the space, yes.” Roman shoves both hands in his pockets. “Show them your photos, Stell.”
Clenching my jaw, I squint, telling him to hush. He’s rushing me. Still, I hand Fran my phone. “Just scroll to the left.”
“Make sure you find the tea set. It’s darling,” Roman says. The man has actually used the worddarling.
“A tea set? Callum’s mom would love that.”
I press my teeth and jaw in a set smile. “Excuse me,” I say, then, planting both hands on Roman’s chest, I push my husband down the hallway. I push until his back smacks into the narrow wall that separates our rooms. “What are you doing?” I whisper-yell.
“I’m being your confidence.”
“Darling?” I say. “You have never in your life used the worddarling.”
“Sure, I have.”
“No, you haven’t.” While I’ve backed him up as far as I can, I keep my hands firmly planted on his chest—just to keep him from escaping. I can’t have Roman running back out there and calling more of my workdarling. Even if that tea set is the epitome ofdarling. “You, to your room. I’ll let you know when we’re finished.”
