I give him a quick tour as I walk around filling dog bowls with breakfast. I cover all the most important rooms, like where the bathroom and kitchen are located. I take a look around when I’m done feeding dogs and explaining things, just to get an idea of what there is to see right now. For the most part, everything seems in pretty good order. No dishes outside of a glass and random fork in the sink. No excess collection of junk on the counter where we usually drop things on our way in and out because it’s near the door. The table -
Crap. The table.
“What’s happening here?” Knox asks before I can say anything.
“I was crafting.” Like that little statement accounts for the bin of tapes and stamps and inks. Or the overflowing bag of paints and brushes and stickers and glue and stencils. Or the stacks of scrapbooking paper. Or the upside-down zipper pouches I left to dry on top of the paper cutter still sitting on an endless array of paper shreds I trimmed off of things. Or the hint of Mod Podge still lingering in the air.
“Crafting?”
“Yeah,” I say awkwardly when he’s still just gaping at the chaos covering my tiny dining room table. “Sometimes I just get this surplus of creative energy and I need to work on something I can see immediate results with. Or I just need to work with my hands. Or create visually. I don’t know.” I throw up my hands, unable to really explain myself. “All I can say for sure, is that it helps me from getting blogger burn out. Which I used to get, before I learned to break up the creative scenery on a regular basis.”
He turns to face me, and I notice his face is getting softer again, the smile in his eyes setting me at ease the way it seems to every time he looks at me. “You don’t have to keep explaining yourself. I get it. I do the same thing. Not like this,” he waves his hand at my disaster central, “but I also have to balance keeping my head in the writing game without letting my passion for it fizzle. Performing live regularly helps offset things, changes the energy up. Keeps me from becoming a hoarder of crafts.” He smirks but I let that one slide. “What do you do with the stuff you make?”
“Gift it. Or use it for prizes in giveaways for my readers.” I point at the little coffee bar I keep in the back corner. “Plus, I keep a bunch.”
“You painted this?” he asks, and I realize my stint in the refurbishing furniture business hasn’t come up in conversation yet.
“Yep.” I kick off my shoes for the second time since I left the house in them last night and make my way over to said bar. I did promise the man a cup of coffee, after all. “I do mosaic work too,” I tell him, collecting the empty pot and making my way back to the kitchen to fill it with water. “But we sold all of those pieces over the years.”
“We?”
“Me and Arizona. When Sloan was little, that was our gig. We’d pick up trashed pieces of furniture and turn them into something cool to sell.” One of two times throughout our entire friendship that we managed to live in the same place for a while.
“What happened?” he asks, picking up one of the pouches I decoupaged and covered in quotes from one of my favorite books.
“Life.” That’s the short version. “It was time for her to move back home and time for me to get serious about my blog if I was ever going to turn it into a profitable writing gig.”
He nods. Then he sets down the pouch and returns his attention to me.
“Coffee?” I ask when I notice he’s staring at me filling the pot at the sink.
“Do we have somewhere we need to be anytime soon?” he asks, like his mind is wandering beyond the promised cup of joe.
“That depends on you,” I tell him. “My schedule is open until this afternoon.” That’s when Sloan gets home.
“Perfect.” He comes over to me, takes the coffee pot from me and sets it on the counter before wrapping both arms around me from behind and resting his chin on my shoulder. “Then I vote you show me to your bedroom.” He tips his head toward thestairs and the part of my small house he hasn’t seen yet. “Show me where you sleep.”
“You want to see my bed?” I ask, heart instantly speeding up in my chest. I put off considering what I might say if this moment came along. Mostly, so I could pretend that I would say yes, be in the moment, the hell with what follows and whether or not this is real beyond a magical twenty-four hours. Now that the time has come, I’m just not sure I have that crazy, spontaneous, emotionally unattached ‘yes’ in me.
“I want to see your bed, so we can get in it,” he clarifies with the deep growl of his raspy voice. Maybe I could say yes. “I want to curl up, hold you close...and sleep.”
A million times yes to that. “That sounds kind of amazing and way better than coffee.” I start moving again. Leading the way as we maneuver our way through my small home and up the narrow stairs. It isn’t at all as awkward or clumsy as I might have thought, having another person essentially attached to me. I guess I forgot it could be this way. Two people being so in sync and so comfortable in each other’s space, they move as one. Now that I’m remembering, I’m not sure what I’ll do if I have to find a way to forget all over again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
KNOX
I don’t think I’ve ever stepped into another home and seen the person who lives there so clearly. Kenley is in every inch of this place, between the handmade decor, the bold colors in her painted furniture and throw pillows (even her big bowl of produce in the kitchen adds color to the space) and the homey feeling she’s created in here through her many throw blankets. Not to mention, there are books all over. On small shelves, on the coffee table, on her desk. She’s got live plants and dried flowers all throughout while random bits of art, clearly created by Sloan, grace random spots all over, from the coffee bar to the fridge to her bedroom.
This may not be the home Kenley would have chosen, but she’s clearly made the choice to make it the best home it can be.
We walk our way up the narrow staircase to the second floor, still wrapped up together.
Outside of the impractically slanted ceiling making it impossible to stand upright anywhere but along the center wall, her bedroom is tiny but cozy. She’s accommodated the small space by opting for a sofa in lieu of a real bed. And I notice, she’s scrapped a dresser in exchange for another small coffee bar. Man, I dig how this woman thinks.
“What’s the system?” I ask. There’s always a system. Especially when there are this many throw pillows and random blankets.
“The pillows and blankets go over on the bench by the window and the bedding comes out of the cupboard under the coffee bar,” she fills me in.
