Page 77 of Never Pucking Ending

All right, I wouldn’t have. I don’t confirm that out loud. Instead, I finish painting and then carefully climb down when I’m done to examine my work. It only took me thirty-five minutes to do the top of the wall and the edge work.

I roll my shoulders and walk over to her, stealing a piece of pickle that fell out of her sandwich. “How is it?”

“The wall looks good.”

I smile. “Good. Although, I meant the sandwich. I know you prefer Italians, but I remember how much you liked the turkey you got when we went to that deli in the city.”

“Oh.” She smiles and nods. “The sandwich is delicious. What did you get?”

She peaks into the bag as I pull out chicken chipotle wrap that she got me into. Then she rolls her eyes when I pull out a salad instead of a bag of chips like I got her because I know she wouldn’t have wanted the vegetable side option.

“I’ll split it with you,” I tell her, watching as she eyes the wrap I unravel from the paper.

Her eyes narrow. “The salad or the wrap?”

“We both know I’m not talking about the salad,” I muse, taking off the lid and putting a light coating of Italian dressing on the lettuce mix. “Getting you to eat greens is about as painful as getting a child to eat them.”

She looks offended for only a brief moment before shrugging because she knows I’m right. “I will allow that, even if your experience with kids is minimal to none.”

“I work with youth camps all the time,” I remind her, deadpan.

Belle leans back in her chair. “Sure, but something tells me you’re not there to give nutritional advice to them unless part of your motivational speeches is ‘eat lean protein and leafy greens to grow big and strong like me’. You don’t know if they eat their vegetables or not, so your point is moot.”

Okay, she has a point. But it’s safe to say at least one or two of them hate vegetables as much as the thirty-four-year-old in front of me. “So is that a no to sharing my salad?”

She tosses a napkin at me, giggling when it smacks me in the face and falls into said salad.

We sit and talk about her plans for the bookstore while I eat, explaining the next steps are, and what the menu she’s been working on is. I know for a fact our kitchen is full of baked goods that we’ll never eat in time before they go bad. Belle started putting baskets together for our neighbors just to get rid of everything. Our closest elderly neighbor, Brenda, was more than happy to accept the homemade bagels and cinnamon buns and said she wouldn’t say no to more.

When we’re done, we check the walls to make sure the paint is dry before working together to add a second coat. We listen to music, and I don’t complain once when I realize the entire playlist contains her three favorite pop artists. I even find myself humming along to a Sabrina Carpenter song that I’ve heard her play on repeat before.

A few of the guys asked me what I was up to, and even offered to come help out if we needed them to, which tells me they’re all in need of a distraction from the season. Richie is taking our losing streak personally, like his injury is the reason we’re not advancing when it’s a team effort to have gotten where we are. But telling him that won’t make him feel better because we’re all our own worst critics. We overanalyze every little thing we do and assume if we just worked a little harder, moved a little faster, then it would make a difference.

Unfortunately, that’s not the case.

Even though Belle wouldn’t mind the help, I tell them we’re good for now. That they can help when we need to move heavy furniture around. I know they’ll show up when the times comes because they all love Belle. She’s made just about every guy on the team food, which wraps them around her finger without knowing it.

By the time both walls are done and we’re back to waiting for paint to dry, Belle is dancing around to a Taylor Swift song, using a brush as a microphone and putting on a show. I’ve always been transfixed by her, but it’s nothing compared to the carefree version who slips out from time to time. She’s usually so busy with work, or stressed for the same reason, that she can’t always enjoy herself.

When a slower song comes on, I can’t stop myself from hooking an arm around her waist and dancing with her. She lowers the brush and stares up at me with a warm smile on her face that softens her eyes. “Hi,” she says quietly, putting her free hand on my back and letting me sway us around the room.

“Hi.”

We keep staring at one another as the song goes on, and I wonder if she can feel how fast my heart is racing. If she only knew what she does to me, how my body always melts in her presence, then she’d never question my feelings.

I take the brush from her and set it aside, then guide that hand to my back as well. I wrap my arms around her and breathe her in. She smells like a mixture of lavender, strawberries, and paint and even with smears of it on her she’s the prettiest thing I’ve had the pleasure of laying my eyes on.

I press a kiss to her temple, pulling her into me until we’re practically hugging.

Her arms lower until they’re wound around my waist, her chin resting just below my pecks. “This is nice,” she whispers. I lift her enough to set her feet onto mine and do all the work for us, moving in slow circles even as the music changes from a slow song to a faster-paced one.

“It is,” I agree, lips against the crown of her head now. When was the last time I slow danced with somebody? It had to be prom, right? Who the hell did I even bring?

Belle pulls back a little to look up at me, her chin resting where her cheek was. “What are you thinking about?”

“Prom,” I answer honestly.

She laughs. “What? Why?”