“Thank you. The cups are labeled.” I nod toward the tray, resting on the deck where he left them. Running a hand along the gunwale, I watch him retrieve them, smiling once he meets my eye again. He looks a little unsure, probably questioning why I’m here. When his gaze drops to the white canvas, I belatedly remember the real reason I came by. To put off the moment when I have to engage in that bit of embarrassment, I ask, “How are you?”
“Fine,” he answers so quickly it sounds practiced instead of truthful. “You? Thank you for the coffee.”
To show just how grateful he is, Shiloh takes a sip from his cup, one eye squinted shut as though it’s too hot. It’s disgusting how cute this man is without even trying. I wonder if I’mallowed to say that out loud, given our conversation the other day. Probably not. We didn’t leave things as anything more than friendship, so grand declarations of attraction probably wouldn’t be warranted.
“You’re welcome. I was bored, so I thought I’d come by and see you on your day off.”
Shiloh smiles at that, a more natural expression than the one he’d been sporting before. I smile back, swallow down the desire to chuck the damn canvas over the side of the boat and into the water, and shift the piece so I can give it to him.
“I made you a lobster,” I tell him, flipping it around so he can see. I feel like a kid showing off their shitty-ass drawing to their mom. My fingers itch to toss it, and I tighten my grip to remind myself that’s not happening.
“You drew that?” he asks, sounding so impressed I can’t help but laugh. I hold it still so he can look closer, bending at the waist to see better as though I’m displaying theMona Lisaand not a ridiculous Sharpie drawing.
“Yes. With a Sharpie. Don’t get too excited, I was just messing around. Nothing special.”
He glances up at me, frowning. “If you made it, it’s special. Give it here.”
Obligingly, I hold it out, only for him to step back and shake his head.
“Damnit,” he mumbles before holding up his palms, streaked with grease. Grinning, I continue holding it out to him. Grease might make it better, honestly. He frowns at me, flapping a hand toward the standing shelter. “Just put it downover there if you don’t want to hold it. Make sure it doesn’t get dirty!”
“It’s just a stupid drawing,” I tell him, laughing, but pleased despite myself.
“Shut up, Ewan,” he replies while I do as I was bidden. “Did you walk all the way here just to give me that?”
“Yeah, and coffee. I was thinking about taking a hike.” I pause, giving him a solid minute to invite himself along before issuing the offer myself. “Want to come? Since it’s your day off and all.”
Shiloh looks surprised by the offer, thoughtlessly dragging the rag over his fingers. There is a swipe of grease on his cheek, just above the line of scruff. My first inclination is to rub it off for him. My second is to talk myself out of doing that. My third is to say “fuck it” and do it anyway. Stepping closer, I raise my hand slowly enough to give him time to pull away. He doesn’t, but watches me with smooth, sea-blue eyes. When I brush my thumb over his cheek, I can feel his breath warm on my palm.
“Dirt,” I explain softly, holding up my hand for inspection once I let him go. Silently, he holds the rag out to me, and I wipe my fingers clean.
“Yes,” he says.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I’d like to come hiking.” Clearing his throat, he bends to put away the tools he was using to do whatever it was he was attempting to accomplish with the lobster tank. My pulse thunders in my ears as I watch him, giddy with the sudden possibilities of the day. I hadn’t really expected him tocome along. I hadn’t even expected to have the courage to ask. Bringing him that damn lobster drawing felt like a fair bit of bravery and likely the only amount I could handle in a single day. But now…now the sun is shining on my face, and Shiloh is agreeing to spend the day with me, and I’m pretty much invincible at this point.
Shiloh makes noise about stopping at home to change, which brooks no argument from me. I don’t care what we do, don’t even care if we never get to the trailhead. I just want to be with him. We climb into his truck, and I smile like a loon the entire way to his house, holding the lobster canvas on my lap after Shiloh fussed about it possibly sliding around and getting dirty in the back.
“Just toss it in the bed,” I’d told him, gesturing toward the truck.
“What is wrong with you?” he’d asked crossly before worrying that putting it in the back seat wasn’t any safer than leaving it in the truck bed.
Now, with the damn thing sitting in my lap and earning a furtive glance from the driver every couple of minutes, I’m feeling like a million dollars. This worthless canvas has done more for me than any painting I’ve sold in my entire career. I smile down at it.
“We should name it,” I tell Shiloh, who huffs a laugh. Turning my face, I grin at him, eyes tracking the hair fluttering in the breeze through the cracked window. Shiloh always used to help me come up with names for my work when I first discovered a talent for art.
“Lobster,” he says, mouth pinched at the corner.
“How on earth did you come up with that original title?” I ask sarcastically. He smiles out the windshield.
“Ed,” he tries again.
“Are we naming a baby or a piece of art?” The rumble of his laugh fills the cab of the truck with more light than the sun ever could. Glancing down at the lobster, who is looking more and more lovely every time I see it, I capitulate. “Okay, Ed it is.”
When we get to Shiloh’s house, I follow him in like I belong. Before he can run up the stairs to his room to change, I request a Sharpie or a marker. He doesn’t even question but pulls one from a drawer in the kitchen, tosses it my way, and jogs up the stairs. Resting the canvas down on the dining room table, I flex my calligraphy skills and add a title to the piece. That done, I sign the bottom corner and put a number the way I always do when I paint something. I’d been expecting this thing to end up in the trash, so I hadn’t done it before. But Shiloh’s support, so shiny and new and precious, has given me more confidence than seven years in my trade ever could. When he comes back downstairs, he looks down at the edited canvas and smiles.
“Ed the lobster,” he reads off, running a gentle finger underneath the words. “You write pretty.”
