“Oh. My. God.” Fabiana came to a stop so abruptly I nearly walked into her. “I think it’s a local art festival.” She tugged me toward the nearest artist. “How much longer are you here?” she asked him.
“One more hour,” the man said in a thick accent.
Fabiana turned to me, eyes wide and practically glowing.
Christ. She was fucking adorable.
“Can I look around, or are you starving?” she asked.
I brushed my thumb over her chin, unable to resist. “I can wait.” Did she really think I could tell her no?
“You can sit if you want.” She pointed to a nearby bench, though she was already half turned back toward the paintings.
I shook my head. “I’m not letting you wander through the crowd on your own.”
Her smile widened. “Then let’s go look.”
We drifted from artist to artist while Fabiana peppered them with questions, admired their work, and occasionally leaned close to murmur in my ear about what she thought their influences were. Even to my untrained eye, some of them were clearly talented. Mostly, I found myself watching her. The way she lit up. The way her whole face changed when something delighted her. It was impossible not to.
A strong wind blew down the street, ruffling my hair. I slipped off my jacket and put it over Fabiana’s shoulders. “It’s getting colder.”
She glanced my way. “You’re going to freeze in just a shirt.”
“You’ve forgotten how I used to live before you moved in.”
“Ah, true. I guess you’ve been training for this.”
“Exactly.”
“Don’t you think it’s been nice having the house warmer the last few weeks?”
A group of male tourists were moving toward us, too consumed in their conversation to be paying much attention to their surroundings. I stepped closer to Fabiana to make sure they didn’t bump into her. “It’s disgustingly comfortable.”
She laughed. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, but there’s no echo if you’re having a conversation in the living room now.”
I had noticed. She’d added a large rug in there, and in most of the hallways, and even in the bathroom by the sinks. I’d noticedthe pillows and blankets draped over armchairs and sofas, the poufs and plants, and the ceramic vases that now occupied shelves and once-empty corners all over the house.
“I have noticed.” Something about seeing her make my house her own made my chest tighten.
As we walked by one of the stalls, I paused.
“What is it?” she asked.
It was a painting of a cliffside done in meticulous detail. The artist, an older man, noticed me looking. “This is one of my favorites.”
“It looks familiar,” I said, trying to place it.
The artist smiled. “Are you Americans?”
“We are. We’re here on our honeymoon,” Fabiana said.
“Congratulations. This is a painting of the Palisades Park just outside New York. I saw it when I went to visit my family in Jersey,” the artist said. “It made an impression.”
Of course.God, it had been over a decade since I’d gone to that place.
“You’ve been there?” Fabiana asked.
“My father and I used to go hiking there when I was younger.”
