“What?”
“Paint something. For me.”
Her brows knit together. “Why?”
“Because I want to see what you create when it’s not work.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It’s enough for one.” She studies me for a second, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m serious. I am. “Think about it,” I add.
She doesn’t agree. But doesn’t refuse. Just…lets it sit there. I’ll take that. “Do you remember our first meeting?” I ask, trying to shift the conversation and unable to stop the grin from forming.
She freezes. Just for a second. Then narrows her eyes. “No.”
“You’re lying.” I chuckle at the way she’s turning red at the memory.
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
She exhales slowly, like she’s already regretting this. “That was not my finest moment.”
“That was my favorite moment.”
She groans softly, dropping her head into one hand. “Please don’t.”
“I walked in late—”
“You were late,” she cuts in.
“—slightly delayed—”
“You were late,” she repeats firmly.
“—and you started lecturing me.”
“I thought you were an employee.”
“You told me punctuality reflects character.”
“It does.”
“You told me if I couldn’t respect time, I shouldn’t be in a professional environment.”
She winces. “I stand by that.”
“I told you I own the place.”
“You did.”
“And you nearly died.”
“I did not nearly die.”
“You did.”
“I was…surprised.”
