“Willa,” I start, unsure of what to say, but she shakes her head and gives me a smile. It’s the one the cameras love, all dimples, but not too wide to show the one crooked tooth on the bottom row that I know she and Jackie argue about often. I never noticed until just now, but it’s a blank smile.
Stunning and angelic but absolutely blank.
“Can you fill the tray with more paint?” she asks, changing the subject as she tips her chin to the can of paint.
I want to tell her that the tray absolutely doesn’t need paint, to call her out for her change of subject, but I don’t.
Instead, I let her have it and pour the paint.
“We did it,” she says excitedly an hour later. “I can’t believe it. I painted a room.”
“You painted the first coat of a room,” I say to her. “This color will need at least two.”
Her grin drops, but then she shrugs. “I’ll call it a win regardless. I painted a room! And it was fun!”
“You’re a nut, you know that?” She shrugs as if it doesn’t even faze her before she steps over to me, demolishing the gap I have been very intentionally keeping between us all day and wrapping her arms around my waist. I hesitate for a moment, but her head settles on my shoulder, and I can’t stop myself: I return the hold, draping my arms around her waist.
“Thank you, Leo. Thanks for letting me help you. This is exactly what I needed.”
That night, those words are what I use to justify my actions when I wonder why I spent an entire afternoon with Willa, even though I had decided to avoid her.
Because I will always give Willa Stone everything she needs.
NINETEEN
WILLA
The next morning, I wake up energized. I take my Pilates class, shower, make myself a quick breakfast, put on a comfy yet cute tennis dress in a pretty lavender, and nervously sit down to inspect what I wrote the night before after painting with Leo.
Relief washes through me when I realize it’s not just decent: it’s exactly what I wanted from this song. It perfectly captures the excitement of feeling butterflies after a long time without, the joy of a new crush, and that nervous energy that seems to linger about. I make a few small changes, then set it aside to start on the next track. Nervously, I stare at a new blank piece of paper, dread creeping in at the thought that nothing will come, that my routine will once again fail me.
Except my routinehasn’tworked for this album.
In fact, the opposite seems to be happening: the more I stick to my routine, the more my creativity fails me.
Which leads me to believe that maybe that’s my problem. Maybe I need to tire myself out all day, then try writing at night. I’ve never been one to write at night, preferring to do it earlier when my mind is fresh, but I also have never had writer’s block that feels this immovable.
Maybe I need anewroutine. That thought would normally would bring panic, but as soon as it crosses my mind, I find myself smiling, because I know exactly where to start.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m pulling the key from my ignition after I park in Leo’s driveway just as he steps out onto his front porch.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, crossing his arms on his chest, and once more, I can’t help but watch his muscles move and ripple beneath the tight tee. He’s in a pair of light-wash, paint-speckled jeans, and his wavy dark hair is messy, no product keeping it contained.
Blue-collar Leo iswayhotter than expensive suits Leo.
“Here to work, of course,” I say with a grin as I slide my sunglasses on top of my head, pushing my hair back. I have a claw clip in my bag to keep it contained later, but I drove here with it down and loose, the windows down and blowing it about. I don’t miss how Leo does a top-to-toe of me as I step towards him. This morning, I’m in a ribbed white tank top, a pair of old blue-jean shorts I found at the back of my closet that are definitely not Jackie-approved, and flip-flops. I tossed a pair of sneakers in my car too, unsure of what I’d be assigned to today.
“Work?” he asks, and I nod before explaining.
“Yup. Yesterday, you earned yourself an assistant, like it or not.” He looks at me, then sighs, but his face is missing his signature irritation.
“Aren’t you here to write?”
“Adam and Wren are away for two weeks now that she’s off work for the summer. I’m just…here. So now it’s your job to keep me entertained.” He lifts one thick eyebrow at me, and I suddenly have the strangest urge to close the gap between us and rub my thumb along it.
“It is?” he asks, and I push the intrusive thought away and nod stoically, then lift a shoulder in a half-shrug.
“Or else I might get bored. You did tell me to stay out of trouble, didn’t you?”
