“Did I—were we…?” She glances behind her and looks at the other side of the bed. “Did I accost you in the middle of the night?”
I let out a chuckle. “You did not. I think we both shifted toward the middle while we were talking, then we fell asleep and just…”
“That’s not like me. I’m not usually much of a snuggler.” She looks up and meets my gaze. She looks sleepy, a little disheveled, and completely adorable. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t. Not at all.” I tilt my head toward the other side of the room. “You want the bathroom first?”
She nods and scrambles off the bed.
I don’t have much to do to get ready. Sarah comes back out, giving me a quick turn in the bathroom, then I yield the space back to her while I pack up what little stuff I take with me when we’re on the road. We’re traveling today, so once I pull on a pair of navy joggers and a team hoodie, there isn’t much else to do.
I respond to a text from Theo asking me if I want a breakfast burrito—yes, please and thank you—but ignore the five others he sent wanting an update on how things went last night. Then I skim over at least a dozen different texts from people congratulating Sarah and me on our engagement. Some teammates, a few friends back in Texas, my mom. I’ll eventually respond to them all, but it feels like too big a task for right now.
Sarah comes out of the bathroom with her dress back on, and my mind flashes to last night when I helped hertake it off. Well,sort oftake it off. All I know is it was almost physically painful to see all that skin and not be able to touch her.
Now, she has her hair pulled over one shoulder and woven into a braid. She can’t have any makeup on, but she still looks beautiful. Bright brown eyes. Pink lips. Freckles on her cheekbones.
“Thanks for letting me borrow these,” she says, handing me my clothes.
I almost tell her to keep them. I like the idea of her having something of mine—wearingsomething of mine—but that would break the rules, so I take them and tuck them into my bag. “What do you have planned for today?” I ask.
“Open studio hours at the Bainbridge,” she says. “And a conversation about getting the heating fixed in the guest apartment. Though I’ve only got a couple of nights left, so I might just endure.”
“Don’t endure,” I say. “I’ll pay for a hotel if you need it.”
She holds up a finger and points it at me. “Listen, mister first class upgrade, I can afford a hotel if I need one.”
I grin. “Sure. But it’s more fun when someone else is paying.”
She purses her lips like she’s considering. “A true statement. Still, I think I’ll be okay. I spend most of my time downstairs in the studio anyway, and the heat works perfectly fine down there. Oh!” she says, her expression brightening. “I forgot to tell you my most exciting news.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Earlier this week, the head gallerist from a gallery called the Rooke came by the studio. I’ve been a huge fan of hers for years. We chatted about my work, and she looked at what I was working on, and then she invited me for tea tomorrow. At her gallery.”
“That feels big?” I say, hoping she’ll explain because honestly, I have no idea. I’ve been googling a lot of art terms lately, but my research hasn’t covered gallery shows and what those mean to artists.
“It could be,” she says. “There’s no guarantee this will go anywhere, but even just having her acknowledge my existence is a big deal.”
I loop my bag over my shoulder, and Sarah pulls on her coat. I take one last look around the room, making sure I didn’t miss anything.
“What about you?” she asks. “Just travel today?”
I glance at my watch. “Yeah. A bus to the airport in twenty minutes, then a flight to Boston. Probably a team meeting, some game tape. Then I’ll crash early before our day game on Sunday.”
“Three games in four days? Does that happen a lot?”
“They try to avoid it, but yeah, sometimes.” I open the door for her. “Can I get you a cab before I go?”
She nods. “Yes, please. That would be great.”
I’m surprised we don’t see any of my teammates in the hallway or on the elevator downstairs—I’m cutting it pretty close timewise. As far as Coach Kimzey is concerned, if we aren’t fifteen minutes early, we’re late.
“So, the Rooke—the gallery you mentioned, are you hoping she’ll invite you to do a show? Would that be a bigger deal than the one you have in Atlanta?” I ask after we step onto the elevator.
“Definitely. The Atlanta gallery is amazing, but the Rooke is career-defining. It would be a huge step up. Not that anything has happened yet. But…” She shrugs. “Maybe?”
“It’ll happen,” I say. “I really believe it will.”
