Page 31 of Right Up His Alley

Texting you now.

Playing it cool,

Truett

Iarrive a few minutes early to Audrey’s Paints, scouring the parking lot for Truett. Part of me can’t believe I’m here before work, thinking of ways to improve Spare Time. A few weeks ago, I was doing everything just to get through the day. Now? I’m thinking of the alley’s future. I can’t help but think how much my father would’ve loved the fact I’m about to give this entire place a desperately needed makeover.

I hope he’d be proud.

Less than three minutes later, a sleek red Porsche glides up beside me. The driver greets me with an enthusiastic wave, his smile warm and bright—enough to melt something deep inside my chest. Truett steps out of his car, and I’m quick to follow.

When I reach him, Truett holds up his phone like a trophy. “Coupon locked and loaded. What would you do without me, Ezzie?”

I shudder at the nickname, but I’ll allow it again. “Be without a forty-percent-off coupon.”

“Tragic. Simply tragic.”

We slip into a silence that’s awkward on the surface but charged beneath it. Something shifted between us after visiting the bowling alley where Truett and I let each other see pieces we’ve seemingly kept hidden for so long in our individual lives. It happened after we danced right there in the middle of the lanes, not caring who watched—something I never would’ve imagined myself doing, not in a hundred years.

And the way our hands fit together… like they were always meant to find each other.

“I know it’s a lot before you start your workday, but thank you for meeting me for our second non-date,” Truett says after the silence lingers a little too long.

“When a man invites you to view paint samples, you don’t tell him no.” I smirk, effectively breaking the thick tension between us. I find it easier to let down more of my guard around him, feeling freer than I’ve felt in a long time.

“I only have about half an hour before I need to head to the alley for opening,” I say, wishing we had more time together. Preferably not at a paint store, even if this is only supposed to be a professional relationship. I don’t think I can fool myself much longer about that.

“Thirty minutes is more than enough,” Truett assures me, already steering me through the front door to get started.

The moment we step inside, a sharp, chemical tang hits my nose—strong enough to make me hesitate for half a second. It smells like fresh paint and something harsher beneath it, the kind of scent that clings to the back of your throat, making you feel like you can almost taste it.

The store is small, but every inch of it is packed. Shelves are lined with rows of paint cans in every brand imaginable, labels facing outward like they’re begging to be chosen. An aisle off to the side is crammed with supplies—brushes of all sizes, rolls of masking tape, plastic liners—all stacked and hanging in neat, crowded rows.

But the most impressive part of the store is the wall of paint swatches. It expands across the entire left side of the wall, showcasing every color imaginable. There’s a large sign above that says, “You choose your color. We mix it for you!” in case anyone had any confusion on how to obtain their desired paint.

I never realized how many different colors of paint there are, until I’ve come face to face with a thousand swatches. Maybe even a few thousand. A person could be here all day and still not be able to go through all they offer.

The thought of sorting through them is overwhelming. I don’t have the eye for decoration. But after seeing the sleek, galaxy-inspired alley, I have my work cut out for me to restore this place to its former and future glory. There’s no way I can modernize the alley, not with the miniscule budget I’m working with, but I can update the vintage charm we have in hopes of going from abandoned warehouse to retro throwback.

Truett whistles low. “Whoa, this place is like every interior designer’s wet dream.”

“How do you even start?” I seriously underestimated how difficult this first renovation to Spare Time will be. It’s paint, for fuck’s sake. I shouldn’t have to dig through a thousand shades to find what I’m looking for.

Ever the optimist, Truett already seems to have a game plan and doesn’t seem intimidated by the sheer number of samples. “Let’s start with what we don’t want. Like—” he looks through the paints before pointing at the pink section, “I don’t think you want the alley to be Barbie pink, do you, Ken?”

“Ken?” I arch a brow.

“Honestly, Ezra, your lack of pop culture awareness really depresses me.” He sighs dramatically for emphasis. “You know, Barbie and Ken? Only the most popular couple in all of American history or whatever.”

“I know who Barbie and Ken are. I was just teasing you.” Poorly, apparently.

Truett eyes me like he doesn’t believe me before shrugging. “So, no to pink?”

“No to pink.” I have no hate for the color, but I’d rather not be working in a poor excuse of Barbie’s Dream House.

Without warning, Truett loops his arm through mine, pulling me closer to the samples. His hand squeezes my biceps, and he all but vibrates with excited energy. My body is keenly aware of him and the warmth of his touch. It settles my nerves, and I can’t help but lean into it.

Lucky for me, Truett doesn’t pull away. He seems comfortable on my arm.