As if an explanation is necessary. My apartment is…well, nothing compared to this. I’ve got a couple of framed photos of mountains around the Pacific Northwest hung up, but I didn’t put much thought behind it. It’s not exactly a spark of life. Maybe I need a hot pink ceramic llama on my coffee table.
“This is great,” I say once I get my bearings. “I like it.”
She shrugs out of her coat and hangs it on a hook by the door, so I do the same with mine.
“It’s not for everyone.”
Itsk. “No tractors on the walls, though.”
“Not yet, but you never know.”
I step closer to one of the canvases. I don’t want to admit it, but she’d been pretty much on the money with her first assessment of my tastes—I’m not an abstract guy. I like facts and figures, tangible goals and clear end results. This painting is all color and nothing. I don’t know how to judge something like that. The colors are nice enough, but what can you say about splotches of paint? But knowing Hope had made those splotches, I can’t help but like them.
An easel stands on the other side of the small living room with a painting propped on it. This one I can appreciate a bit more—it shows a deep burgundy armchair with a floppy stuffed ostrich sitting on it. The scene is simple but soft, and I get the feeling that ostrich has been loved on by a very special little kid.
How did she capture that? I would barely be able to describe that kind of feeling, let alone paint it.
“What do you think?”
She has one corner of her bottom lip in her mouth worrying it, and I have the urge to take her lip in my mouth, too. I wouldn’t be nearly as rough as she is with those soft lips.
She bobs her eyebrows at me. Right. She asked a question—and I’ve been staring at her mouth again, being obvious.
I nod interest and pretend like I have some knowledge of art. “They’re colorful. Interesting. I feel like I could give this one a hug.”
I gesture at the stuffed ostrich.
Her answering smile makes my chest heat, like just making her happy is a massive win. Maybe I should go around the room and compliment every painting until her true smile stays on her face for good.
“What do you think of spaghetti?”
It takes me a second to follow her question. She pulls a pot out of a cupboard, and I remember the point of this visit. Not art appreciation, and not kissing.
Well…that wasn’t the point of herinvitation. What we do with the rest of the evening remains to be seen.
“Spaghetti sounds good.”
“Normally, I’d make something a little more complex, but lately I’ve been resorting to the classics.” She sets the pot in the sink and fills it with water. “Some nights, I hardly have enough energy to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before I fall into bed.”
I move into the small kitchen to stand right beside her. “Don’t tell me you forget dinner, too.”
“No, but sometimes it’s not much more than toast and jam.”
It’s too easy for her to overlook her own needs like that. “You need to take better care of yourself.”
She shrugs off my advice and puts the pot on the stove. “I’m fine.”
She admitted to regularly missing meals, and she put in a full day’s work today, even though it’s the only day her store is closed. I don’t want to think about how many days she’s up at six doing something for the festival. She’s working herself too hard, all for the sake of an event that might end in bitter disappointment. Even if the Christmas festival were a raging success, it wouldn’t be worth this level of self-sacrifice.
“You’re running yourself ragged. Sit down.”
Her sweet smile holds a spark of challenge. “This is my house, you know.”
Groaning, I pull my fingers through my hair. Here I am trying to take charge of her, even off the clock. I don’t want to order her around. I want to take care of her, protect her, get some food into her so she can relax for a solid minute.
I…am deeply grateful I didn’t say any of that out loud this time.
“It is your house,” I agree, taking her gently by the elbow and leading her to the small dining table. “And you’re going to sit down. Please.”
