I drop the paintbrush and lunge. Jamal pivots, one arm fully extended to keep me away.
“This is Jamal, Kael’s best friend, studio-mate, and confidant. Yeah, he’s here.”
Jamal’s jokey keep-away expression cracks into a full smile at something Ash says.
“Oh, you’re out front?”
“Tell him I’ll be right down,” I say, deciding surrender and fake indifference will end this faster.
“So what fancy restaurant are you taking him to?” Jamal asks, perfectly aware that a night spending more than a single painting goes for is exactly the kind of date I’m dreading.
“Will you just tell him I’m coming down?”
Jamal’s eyebrows raise with sudden interest. “Oh. That sounds fun. Hang on, I’ll ask him.”
Jamal rests the phone against his shoulder, batting his eyelashes like any of this is funny and not just making me more nervous for something I never should have agreed to in the first place. I’d only agreed because Ash and I were on some post-sex high, and because of the wildfire situation, and… he’d been so sweet with Sharon and Walt. With me.
“Ash wants to know if he should come up to your studio.”
A clammy sweat breaks out on the back of my neck, and I rip the phone from where Jamal has it pinned to his shoulder.
“Ash?”
“Oh! Hi Kael.”
My heart stops racing. Just hearing his voice is enough for it to give up completely, deciding to lodge itself in my throat instead of reaching the finish line behind my ribs.
“I’m coming down right now.”
“Don’t want him in your studio?” Jamal whispers.
I flick him off, he blows me a kiss, and I head downstairs to meet my date, which is already enough to explain all of Jamal’s skepticism. Letting Ash pick me up from my studio is city blocks closer than I’ve let anyone come to my favorite place.
One more reason this is all one horrible mis?—
Ash is standing at the curb in a purple slim-fit blazer, a black button-down underneath, tight black jeans, and dark brown leather boots. His hair is more styled than I’ve ever seen it, not a drop of sweat or dirt anywhere. Obviously we’d showered—together—so it’s not the first time I’ve seen him clean, but damn. He looks good.
And he’s beaming again, just like in the photo on my phone, one hand on the open door of a car I barely register.
Huh.
“Thought you didn’t have a car,” I say over the rush in my ears. Am I shouting?
He goes crimson, rivaling my kind of blush, shoulders creeping up toward his ears. “There was a mix-up on the rental app.”
I’m too busy marveling at the way his biceps bulge through the button-down and jacket. Maybe an undershirt too. I make it my personal mission to find out how many layers his arms are conquering before I finally notice what he’s gesturing to.
A lime-green Smart car.
Realizing I missed this citrus crime makes me snort. I can’t help it. Clapping my hand over my mouth does no good either. Ash has rolled up in an oversized tropical fruit we’re towering over just by standing on the sidewalk.
When I slide my gaze off it, Ash is staring at me practically looking out from the shell he’s made out of those incredible shoulders. And his jacket is purple. My god, the combo’s incredible.
“It looks like something you’d pick up and shake for loose change,” he says.
“They painted it radioactive green,” I say through another laugh. “And look. They gave it rims to make it look dangerous.”I catch the Zippy logo stuck on the side, and realize what’s happened. “You rented a car just for our date?”
He opens the door to reveal an interior even smaller than the futon in my dorm at ArtU, and I squeeze in while he explains.
