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My only answer is an annoyed grunt.
Willow laughs. Then she wiggles until her arms are wrapped around me, hugging me back. I stand completely rigid for a handful of beats until she gives me an encouraging squeeze. When I finally relax, bending until my chin rests on the top of her head, Willow makes this soft, happy sound.
Energy zips backward through my body until it singes my scalp. Willow’s blatant contentment makes me feel like I just played all nine positions and won single-handedly.
As the minutes stretch on, my thought from earlier pushes forward like a marching band crashing through a plate-glass window. There’s no way I should even be entertaining this crazy idea, but what if…
With my self-preservation skills temporarily offline, I find myself asking, “What would your ideal life look like?”
“Can I have a unicorn?” she asks, not missing a beat.
“No. Real-life options only.”
Willow laughs, looking up at me. “I wouldn’t want a unicorn, anyway. I’m allergic to animals.”
I blink. “But you worked for a vet clinic.”
“A girl’s gotta pay rent,” she says with a shrug.
“But if you didn’t. If you didn’t have to pay rent or worry about bills or medical supplies, what would you do?”
Willow tucks the corner of her lip between her teeth, hesitating. “I’d finally put my expensive, private-school degree to good use.”
“Doing what?”
For someone who went into specifics about which cereal became her favorite after her tastebuds changed in puberty, Willow is being oddly cagey now.
She draws in a steadying breath. “I’m a hyperrealist painter. I create detailed paintings that capture subjects with near-photographic precision. My favorite pieces include a person, usually close-up, and something natural, like water, flowers, or foliage.”
“That sounds…breathtaking,” I rasp.
What is with me? I’m not the kind of man who uses words like breathtaking. Something about Willow being shy about what she’s so obviously passionate about has jumbled my brain.
A half-smile graces her lips.
“Thanks. Most of the time when I tell people what I do, they ask if I’m any good at it. Or they ask to see pictures to judge if my art measures up.” Her jaw tightens. “If I was a NASA engineer, you’d be impressed without me having to show you a rocket launch, but when I say I’m an artist, no one believes I have any worth until they see my work. It’s…”
Willow puffs out her cheeks with a noisy exhale.
“Frustrating and demeaning?”
The smile she sends me is so radiant I almost have to sit down. “Yeah.”
“Your ideal day would be spent painting?” I ask, trying to clarify while also getting my bearings.
“That’s the dream.” She releases me with a bashful smile.
“What if…”
I rub at the ache behind my breastbone while telling the screaming warning bells in my brain to quiet the heck down. My agent wanted me to fake a relationship. I can’t imagine anyone buying that, yet we just convinced Brielle that we were steps from walking down the aisle. What if I could offer Willow something she desperately needs in exchange for helping me out. It would get my family off my back while also rehabbing my public image.
“What if there was a way for you to stay and do that?”
Chapter 11
Willow
“Idon’t see what the problem is,” Delilah says for the millionth time while biting into another cheesy slice of pizza.
