Page 78 of Cherry Picking

“The overheads in here wash out every bit of pigment,” I counter.

“They’re viewing her in the chapel. The lighting is softer there.”

I pull the color back a shade. I’m not in the mood to argue before I’ve finished my first cup of coffee.

My phone buzzes against my thigh, the vibration muffled by the layers of my protective gown. Aside from Hazel, Briggs is the only person who’s been calling lately. If it isn’t him, it’s my landlord, and I’m currently staring down a two-day late notice for the third month in a row.

“Two minutes,” I tell Tomás.

“Take five. And for God’s sake, scrub up properly.”

I shed the gown in the anteroom, scrub up to the elbows, and take the call.

“Evie, hey.”

“It’s so early, Briggs.”

“It’s ten here.” I hear a fridge door swing open on his end. “I have a question. I’ve been trying to convince myself it’s a bad idea for three days, and the logic hasn’t held.”

“That’s a terrible opener.”

“Will you come to Charlotte? I really want to see you.”

The air in the corridor feels suddenly scarce. I press my forehead against the cool cinder block. “What?”

“Second weekend of February. We have a home game. Danny already confirmed he’d cover your shifts with my dad.”

“You cleared this with Danny before you even asked me?”

“In case you said yes.” I can practically see him standing in his kitchen, the fridge door still wide. “I didn’t know if Sutton’s could spare you. If they can, you could fly out. Four hours direct. You land Friday, and I’ll have you back in Vegas by Monday morning.”

I lean against the fire extinguisher casing. “I don’t know, Briggs.”

“You’ve never seen me play.”

“That’s not true,” I say, my voice dropping. “I’ve seen plenty of your games.”

He huffs. “On a cereal box–sized screen doesn’t count.”

“Your dad has a sixty-inch TV. It’s plenty of surface area.”

“You’ve never been to Carolina,” he says, his tone shifting into something softer, more persuasive.

The thought of actually being in his city, in his space without the desert pressing in, makes my stomach do a slow, dizzying roll. “That’s true.”

“So come.”

“I’d have to clear it with my dad. And the flights alone—”

“Handled. The second you say yes.” He lets out a heavy breath. “I once paid four grand for a suite and slept in it for three hours. This is a better investment. Let me do this, Evie.”

I should be practical. I should weigh the debt and the schedule and the absolute mess of my feelings. But the artist in me wants to see the colors of a different city, and the woman in me just wants to see him.

“Fine. Yes. Okay.”

“Booking it now.”

The sound of his rapid tapping carries through the line. It has me feeling nineteen again—reckless, unmoored, and pulsing with a terrifying sort of electricity. I should probably be worried about how easily he can sway me, but I’m too busy trying to keep my breathing level.