I open the door and take in the woman I’d always longed to have in my home, a possibility I’d never let myself expect.
“I texted you to let you know I was on my way.” She pushes me farther inside and shuts the door.
Before I have a chance to respond, she grabs my face and looks deeply into my eyes. Normally, I would be all about this, but today the sudden jerking of my head is too jarring to enjoy.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Good morning to you too, Dani.”
“Don’t ‘good morning’ me. You look like shit.”
“Ouch.”
“Did you go out last night?”
I grab her hands and remove them from my face. My ears are starting to ring from all the movement. “No. I was up working.”
“All night?” she screeches.
I nod my head, and she shakes hers with disdain. “What’s wrong with you?”
“That’s the second time you’ve asked me that today.”
“And yet the answer is still unclear.”
I look up to the freshly finished painting in my loft and back to Dani. Her eyes follow mine but remain unimpressed.
“At least the painting’s done.” I’ll take it to Spring House later so Bailey can ship it to the client for me.
“At least the painting’s done,” she mocks me in a much higher voice than mine and then points to the hall that leads to my bedroom. “Go shower and get yourself together so we can go.”
“And where are we going?”
“Get your shit together and then I’ll tell you.”
“I’m sorry, are you mad at me?”
“No. I just think you’re an idiot who doesn’t take care of yourself.”
I look in her eyes, and underneath the indignation and ire, I catch a glimpse of concern. She worries about me. That alone gives me the energy I need to get through this day. “You got it, Storm.”
She squints her eyes at that. “Storm?”
“Yep, my little thunderstorm.” I don’t give her the time to think about that before I head to the back to get ready.
Once I’m showered and dressed, I walk back out to the living room, but Dani’s nowhere to be found. I look up to the loft and find her studying my paintings. I stand as still as possible, not wanting to startle her. I want to see how she views my work. I want to see how it makes her feel.
She spends a good amount of time looking at each one, analyzing every curve and swoop made by my brushes. She stares at one of the canvases longer than the others, physically reaching out to lightly swipe her hand against it. I wonder what intrigues her about that one. It’s of a little boy holding his baby sister for the first time. Maybe it’s the pure innocence captured there that draws her in.
She turns around, catching me watching her, and her step falters. “Oops, I’m sorry. I hope it’s okay that I’m up here.”
“Of course it is.”
She bites her lips and looks at another painting. “You really are exceptional at this.”
“Thank you.”
“What’s under there?” She points to a large canvas covered with a tarp in the corner of the loft.
