Tom laughs too.
I exhale, let my hand drop from his wrist.
"Let's grab lunch. I'm starving."
"Me too.”
We start down the block together. The sidewalk narrows near the corner where a truck is double-parked, and our shoulders bump. Tom's hand brushes mine briefly
Tom glances over at me as we wait for the light to change.
"Thai or sandwiches?"
"Sandwiches," I say. "That place on Atlantic with the good pickles."
"Deal."
Tom's hand wraps around mine.
I glance at him. He's already looking at me, corner of his mouth pulled up.
I smile back.
The light changes. We cross together, fingers linked.
Chapter forty-seven
Tom
The knock comes just as I'm sliding the last print into the archival sleeve.
I cross the apartment, open the door. Wren stands there holding a white paper bag stamped with pale green script, grinning.
"I come bearing gifts and unsolicited life advice," she says, brushing past me into the apartment.
She lifts the bag. I see the logo. "Is that banana pudding?"
"Yes it is."
"Did I ever tell you I love you?"
She laughs. "All the time."
I pull her into a quick hug. She walks past me, sets the bag on the counter, and glances around the apartment.
"I thought maybe having a girlfriend would've made you put more artwork up. That Monet's looking lonely."
My eyes betray me. They flick back to the desk. Just for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough. Wren is practically a predator when it comes to reading my tells. She follows my line of sight, her eyes narrowing as she spots the framed photo ofSam at the ocean. She walks over slowly, stops in front of the desk.
"Is that a picture you took of Sam?"
I nod.
"And you got it framed. And hung it up." She taps the glass, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across her face.
I rub the back of my neck. Don't answer.
"Thomas John Bennett. Are you blushing over a woman?"
