Sky blue.
Ocean spray blue
Who the fuck knew there were so many shades ofblue?Why isn’t there just aguest room light blue?How on earth is someone supposed to pick out of the seemingly thousands of colors of blue, all of them almost identical?
Willa would know, a voice in my head says without my permission. I frown at the wall of paint chips, pretending I have no idea where that came from.
But I know. I know where it came from. It’s the same place that almost handed her the sander when she asked to help with the cabinets, and I saw her sad face when I told her no. In my defense, I stand by that—the woman’s barely ever held a hammer, I’m sure, and was hungover for what might have been the first time in her life. She shouldn’t have been handling power tools.
But that part of me that always wants to give Willa exactly what she wants, who makes the most bizarre, specific requests for her career happen just to see that grateful grin light up a room, wanted to wipe that look off her face forever.
Stupid.
It’s so fucking stupid.
Idiotic, stupid, absolutely foolish, and irresponsible.
Still, I find myself putting the paintbrushes I grabbed to paint the edges of the room back on the shelf.
Then I’m taking my cart to the front of the store and leaving at the cart return.
I find myself walking to my car and turning the key in the ignition. Driving back toward my house, but passing the turn for my driveway.
I shouldn’t do it.
I should turn back to the store and get any old blue or maybe say fuck it and go for a green, but since moving here, the steely restraint I’ve built against Willa has melted away.
I know in the past, I’ve done the right thing, keeping a barrier between us, maintaining the professionalism I need. She’s my client, and nothing else. I’ve never had any issue with keeping that divide between us until recently.
In the last week, I held her in my arms multiple times. In the last week, I’ve watched her stand her ground, argue with me, bring back that backbone that I thought was long gone and forgotten.
In the last week, I’ve contemplated crossing that very clear line in the sand more times than I should admit.
But I can’t cross that line, not even if she’s looked like she wanted me to cross it just as badly as I wanted to.
But what Icangive her is a new experience.
She can’t be mine, but we can be friends, right?
That’s what I convince myself as I drive up a windy road, not on my property but on the Three Kings property past Jesse’s place, and stop at a small cabin with a familiar truck out front. When I kill the engine, I take in a deep breath, dropping my head to the steering wheel, and try to convince myself to turn around. To leave and go back to the store, ask an employee to pick a color, any color, and move on with my life.
But I see her disappointed face every time I close my eyes. And I don’t foresee that changing anytime soon.
So instead of being wise, I step out of my car and take the steps to her place before knocking on the front door. I don’t have much more time to second-guess myself, thankfully, because inno time at all, the door opens, a sweaty Willa standing before me.
She’s in a sport bra of some kind and a pair of tight shorts, both in a pale purple color that I’ve never seen her in before. Her hair is piled up on top of her head, her face free of makeup, making the freckles across the bridge of her nose visible. Her chest is heaving with breaths, and I have to fight everything in me not to look down and stare at the rise and fall like the sick fuck I am.
“Leo?” she asks, rightfully confused.
“Hey, Willa.” Then I stand there at her front door at ten in the morning, staring at her and not saying a word.
Like a fucking creep.
Words move through my mind, but none of them make sense, and none of them are something that ever should fall from my lips, so I just stand there, quietly.
Staring.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, hesitantly, the words throwing me out of my daze.
