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I nod. “He was sitting right outside my window one morning. I took a picture before he flew away and even had time for a quick watercolor rendering before he left. Then, I got to work and painted that. You really like it?”
“I more than like it. I like, like it. I have a crush on this painting. It’s not just the bird. It’s winter. You captured the beauty of winter.” She goes to touch it again but then pulls her hand back.
For a moment, I can’t speak. Somehow, this lovely woman perfectly interpreted the feeling I had been attempting to convey when making that piece. I want to gather her in my arms and brush kisses over her sweet lips as I thank her for understanding my work. Instead, I step beside her and slip the painting from the wall.
“You should take it then.” Now, I’m hoping I don’t find out she was just being polite.
That thought is quickly dismissed when she practically snatches it out of my hands.
“Really? I can have it? To take home with me?”
I cover up how much her excitement means to me by making a joke. “Well, since you like, like it. I wouldn’t want to break up the happy couple.”
Holly does a little hop dance, like an energetic puppy, while she holds my painting to her chest, as if I’ve given her some precious gift. In reality, it’s me who’s just been given something wonderful. Then, shocking the hell out of me, she reaches her hand up to grab the back of my neck and pulls me down to her tiptoe level before planting a kiss on my cheek.
“Thank you, Ben.” She releases me and slips out of my bedroom, eyes focused on her new artwork.
I, on the other hand, am still bent forward, dealing with the shock of having Holly’s lips on me for even the briefest moment.
HOLLY
Dijon mustard drips onto my chin, and I quickly swipe it off with my finger but not before Ben sees.
He smirks and hands me a napkin. “I told you that was too much.”
“You can never have too much mustard.” I take another generous bite of the turkey, cheddar, lettuce, and tomato sandwich I assembled for myself from the different fixings Ben stocked the cooler with. “When I was a kid, I used to have mustard sandwiches.”
“You don’t mean …” The horrified look on his face cracks me up as I nod.
“Yep! Bread and mustard. That’s all I needed.”
He mimes gagging, and I decide I’d better not mention how I resorted to that simple meal a few times this past year when money was tight.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never eaten anything weird before.”
Ben chews on his own sandwich, his expression morphing from disgusted to thoughtful. As he ponders his past eating habits, I take the time to study him.
We’re sitting at the small kitchen table, and Ben’s elbows rest on the worn plastic surface. He’s wearing his wire-rimmed glasses. I’m betting it’s because he knew he’d fall asleep in the car. Again, I can’t help comparing him to a sexy professor. With them on, all he needs is a sports coat with elbow patches, and my panties would catch on fire.
Speaking of fire, the one he built roars behind him, bringing out the red in his hair so much that I can’t even see the blond tones anymore.
My gaze moves from his face to his body. The purple shirt he has on completely covers his tattoos. I wonder if he wears long sleeves because it’s cold or if it’s a habit to hide the ink. I want to push them up his arms, so I can see more of his work.
But maybe it’s not just his tattoos he’s keeping covered.
I know Marcus is self-conscious about the raised ridge on his forearm needed for the dialysis treatment. He thinks it’s unattractive. I, on the other hand, have always connected the twisting bulge with him staying alive. There’s no part of my mind that views fistulas as ugly.
Maybe, if I told Ben that, he’d stop wearing so many long-sleeved shirts.
Maybe he’d stop wearing shirts altogether.
I jump and glance up when Ben finally answers, trying not to look like I was mentally undressing him.
“I’ve been eating sushi since I was three years old. Does that count?” Ben’s eyes focus on me with a hint of hope in them, like he wants to be weird like me.
My smile is indulgent. “I’d say that’s a bit odd. But it doesn’t make me want to gag.”
He smirks. “Sorry to disappoint. You want me to go grab a handful of dirt and try to choke it down?”
