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When the paperwork is finished, I find Laura near the doorway between the two rooms. She has a small plate with two cheese cubes and a cracker on it.

“I sold it.”

She turns fully toward me. “Wow! Kell.”

“The gallery takes twenty percent. They called it a commission. I had to ask what that meant.”

“Of course you didn’t know. So you asked.”

She puts the plate down on the nearest table and hugs me. I don’t think before wrapping my arms around her. The fine green growth along my shoulders brushes against her sleeves.

For a few seconds, she’s pressed against me in the middle of the gallery, and the memory of that Monday in my studio arrives immediately. Her mouth on mine. Her body moving against me. The bed twenty feet away.

Laura pulls back first, though not far. Her hands stay on my arms.

“Sorry. I forgot we were being careful.”

“A hug isn’t the problem.”

Her hands stay on me for another second. “Congratulations,” she says.

“Thank you.”

I glance at her plate. “You were right about dinner.”

“I have a sixth sense about cheese cubes.”

There’s heat between us. I can feel it, and from the way her fingers tighten briefly against my arms, she can too.

Neither of us does anything about it. That feels new.

We stay until the reception thins out. Laura talks to people without trying to explain me to them. When someone asks her which painting is mine, she points toward it and says, “The red one,” with enough pride in her voice that I hear it from across the room.

She asks questions about other work, drinks half a glass of wine, eats four cheese cubes despite complaining about them, and seems completely at ease. On the way outside, she slips her hand into mine.

“You had fun,” I say.

“I did.”

“You didn’t expect to?”

“I expected to enjoy seeing your painting.” She looks ahead as we walk toward the parking lot. “I don’t think I expected to enjoy all of it this much.”

I squeeze her fingers once. “You fit here.”

Laura glances at me. “I had a good time. I’m not sure that qualifies me for the art world.”

“You ate the cheese.”

“Under protest.”

“Four pieces, Laura.”

She turns toward me. “You were counting?”

“Yes.”

She laughs, and I want to kiss her. I don’t.