I swipe to answer. “Hey.”
“Is this a bad time?” His voice is gruff, edged with exhaustion.
“No,” I say, stepping closer to the building but lingering outside. “I’m not at home, though. Connie invited me to an art show, so Sarge is watching Tate.”
“An art show?” Corbin perks up slightly. “What kind of art show?”
“Her friend sketches charcoal portraits, and she’s showcasing them at this cute little gallery on the corner of…” I glance up at the street signs. “Peach Tree Lane and Cordella.”
“I know that place,” Corbin says without missing a beat. “Guy named Gio owns it. He really promotes local artists.”
I frown. “How do you know this?”
“Just…” he hesitates, then clears his throat. “From around.”
A strange feeling settles in my stomach, but before I can press, I change the subject. “How’s your trip?”
“I think I spent most of my day talking,” he mutters. “And you know I’m not much of a talker.”
I smirk. “Except when it comes to Tate.”
He exhales a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Except for Tate.”
A pause stretches between us, the silence heavier than it should be.
“Well,” he finally says, “I won’t keep you. I was calling to say goodnight to Tate, but I’ll try him tomorrow morning before school.”
I hesitate, my fingers tightening around my phone. “I could have him call you when I get home.”
The offer comes out too quickly, too eager. I feel it the second the words leave my lips.
Corbin doesn’t acknowledge it, though. “Up to you. But I really don’t mind calling tomorrow.”
“I won’t be here long,” I add for no reason other than to keep him on the line a little longer. “We’re just walking the gallery, having hors d’oeuvres, then heading home.”
“You should stay as long as you want, Jules,” he says. “It’s not often you get a night off. Maybe it’ll give you some inspiration.”
The warmth in his voice makes my throat tighten.
“I don’t like being away from Tate too long,” I admit. “I always feel guilty when I do things on the nights he’s with me.”
“You shouldn’t feel that way,” Corbin reassures me. “Tate’s in good hands with Sarge. Just… enjoy yourself.”
I sigh, twisting my bracelet around my wrist, my fingers brushing over the paintbrush tattoo I still can’t believe I got. “Yeah, okay.”
A beat passes.
“I’ll call in the morning,” Corbin says.
“Okay,” I murmur.
“Good night, Jules.”
I swallow. “Good night, Corbin.”
The line goes dead, but I keep the phone pressed to my ear for a moment longer, listening to the silence.
When I finally pull the phone away, my heart stutters. Just a little.
