“Figured you earned the carbs.” There’s that flicker in her eyes; embarrassment trying to creep in. I cut it off before it settles. “You were a badass last night,” I lean against the counter. “Joe texted me. Said if you ever want a gig, he’s got an opening.”
Her mouth twitches. “I was drunk.”
“You were human,” I correct. And I mean that. More than anything else I said.
Silence stretches for a second. She studies me like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like I’m going to tease her. Or make it about the part where she practically begged me to drag her to bed. I don’t. Instead, I slide her mug toward her. “You hungover?”
“Little fuzzy.”
“That’s why there’s water already in the fridge. And ibuprofen in the cabinet.”
She blinks at me. I shrug, the smirk on my face impossible to hide. “I’m an expert at hungover.”
Her shoulders ease. Just a fraction but it’s enough. That’s the win. I take a sip of my coffee, then nod toward the window. “It’s stupid nice out. Last of the September magic. I don’t have to be in the studio today.”
She raises a brow. “You don’t?”
“Nope. Luc’s got something going with Lily and Larkin, so thought maybe we could do something that doesn’t involve alcohol or emotional breakdowns.”
She huffs out a laugh.
“There’s a fall fest in Lincoln Square,” I continue, keeping it light. “Or we could hit the Art Institute. Be cultured. Pretend I understand abstract expressionism.”
“Why Michael, I’m shocked that you don’t know about art.” Her mouth quirking up in a little smirk.
“I absolutely do not. Not even going to pretend.”
That finally pulls a real smile out of her. And it hits me square in the chest. God, she’s beautiful when she forgets to guard herself. She wraps both hands around her mug, studying me again, but differently now. “You don’t have to do this,” her voice soft.
“Do what?” I lean back against the counter.
“All of this.” She sweeps an arm out in an arc toward the counter.
I meet her eyes and hold them. “Yeah, I do.” Not because I feel guilty. Not because I turned her down. But because I want her to know she can trust me with the ugly days. And most of all, because I want to. She considers my suggestions longer than I expect.
“The museum.” She takes a sip from her mug. “I haven’t been to one in years.”
There’s something careful in the way she says it. Like she’s testing whether I’ll roll my eyes. I don’t. “Art Institute it is,” I confirm with a nod. “You can explain things to me like I’m five.”
“I can do that.”
“Perfect. That’s my learning level.”
That almost-smile again. Softer now and less guarded. She disappears to get dressed, and I give her space. I don’t hover. I don’t overdo it. I just clear the plates, rinse the mugs, and pretend I’m not absurdly pleased she chose the thing that matters to her.
By the time she steps back into the living room, I take one look at her and forget whatever smart-ass comment I was planning. She’s in skinny black jeans and an oversized pink sweater. Her hair is down, the curls flowing like silk over her shoulders. Minimal makeup, and her blue eyes are sparkling like sapphires. She looks warm, and soft. Like fall personified. And suddenly, keeping my distance feels like it’s going to be the hardest part of the day.
“You ready?” She glances away, her cheeks flushing as she grabs her bag off the chair to sling it over her shoulder. I nod once, because if I stare any longer, I’m going to say something that shifts the tone.
We take the L downtown. It’s easy. Comfortable. Our knees bump when the train jolts but she doesn’t put any space between us. Not even a little. I don’t hate that. We walk from the station to the museum, and I point out places along the way that I know and think she might enjoy.
I pay for our tickets when we get there, even though she argues that she’s perfectly capable of paying her own way. I gently remind her I’m a rich rockstar and tell her to deal.
The museum is quiet in that reverent way it always is. Polished floors. Echoing footsteps. The faint smell of old paint and history. She relaxes the second we step inside. I notice. Hershoulders drop. Her voice changes and it’s softer, more assured. She walks me through rooms like she belongs here.
“These are my favorite Monet’s,” she points, tilting her head toward a wash of color and light. “He painted the lily pond over and over at different times of day. He was obsessed with the light.”
“Or he had commitment issues,” I murmur.
