Page 49 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

She sucks in her bottom lip, but I think I see a smile trying to break through the storm. I cradle her face in both palms and stare deep into her eyes.

“You called me girlfriend?”

I let out a faint laugh and rest my head on hers, closing my eyes. My thumbs caress her face.

“I did. To my mortal enemy. I hope that’s all right.”

Her hands wrap around my wrists.

“It’s all right,” she says, and I pull my head back enough to meet her gaze. I glance to our right, to the acid tube and chart on her work station.

“Do you need to finish this right now?”

She shakes her head and slips on a wry, crooked smirk.

“I’m not really behind. I mean, you know me. I’m way ahead.”

I chuckle and step in to press a chaste kiss on her lips, smiling against them.

“Of course you are,” I say. “Clean up. There’s something I’d like to show you.”

I feel Rachel’s hard stare as we walk toward the gallery.

“Please trust me,” I say before she can dig her heels in and protest.

“I’m trying,” she says, a hint of skepticism coloring her words.

We step inside and find a few patrons in the space. It’s not quite evening, and it’s a weekend. It’s usually when the gallery is busiest.

“Seeing a lot of you lately, Mr. Ford,” Nora teases. “As well as your miss.”

“She likes you,” I whisper in Rachel’s ear.

“He likes you,” Nora blurts almost in unison.

Rachel giggles.

“I like him, too,” she responds to Nora.

I weave my hand into hers and squeeze her palm.

“You do?”

She nods, and I want to tell her I’m falling in love with her right now, but I should probably win her back completely first. Instead, I settle for her confirmation of liking me.

When we get to the blue room, I lead her directly to the tree painting. When I pull it from the wall, she gasps.

“I don’t think you’re allowed?—”

Her words stop fast. She sees it.

With the painting propped against my stomach, I run my finger lightly over the signature in the bottom right corner: Annabelle Ford.

“Is that your mom?” It’s a good assumption, and close.

I shake my head.

“Grandma,” I say, and I can feel my face beaming. I hold the piece, careful to keep my hands on the frame. I shouldn’t have touched her signature, but I haven’t pulled it from the wall in a long time.

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