Page 138 of Painting Celia

Hector whooped and hugged her, but León glanced immediately at Celia. Look at her—the light in her eyes, the lift of her chin, that true glow he’d only seen a few times. His heart swelled as her quiet joy filled him up.

Incubadora had its first resident artist.

Twenty Seven

Celia returned to her front desk, leaving behind the misty day to rejoin Kelsey in the cavernous red brick warehouse. The sound of drilling on the floor above welcomed her back to work, a symphony of sawdust echoing off the lofty ceilings. Hector had gladly promised to move in on opening day—one more puzzle piece was in place!

She tensed as León followed through the door behind her. This was new; he usually lit off to his pursuits after fifteen minutes in her presence. She eyed him cautiously, moving quickly to put the desk between them as he loped up, radiating that energy she remembered so well. She’d seen that beatific smile when he finished a painting, and the heat it ignited in her belly was a warning: look away or bear the futile, painful wanting.

“Hector is coming to live here,” Celia told Kelsey, who still lounged in the single desk chair with her feet on a box, waiting to finish the social media plan.

“The first resident!” León crowed.

Kelsey raised one eyebrow at him. “You found one, huh? You’re quite the little worker.”

He ignored her to watch Celia avidly. His thumb was tapping against his thigh in that old familiar way. “There are a lot of beds to fill,” he said.

“One less now,” Celia said, blood thrumming at the change in him. His casual friendliness of the last weeks had melted away. This was the spirited León she remembered, eagerly bouncing when she had time to pose, his face alight as he woke her with questions in the morning. Mi cielo, he used to say.

The drill upstairs whined to a stop, silence emptying the room as Kelsey lowered her feet and turned the chair to watch the show. The chair’s soft squeak and Kelsey’s toes tapping against the dusty concrete floor echoed in the charged silence.

León stood on his toes, fingers tight on the edge of the desk, his arms stiff.

“I can’t stay on Andrew’s couch forever,” he said, eyes burning into her. “Maybe this type of group living is right for me.”

Oh.

Good lord.

León living one floor below her? There was only one way that could end. One of them would fly a white flag, and it would be all over.

Celia suddenly saw herself at the top of the black stairs, her eyes adjusting to the night-filled room below her, weak with apprehension but unable to stop herself from descending. He’d be awake, waiting for her, hoping. She’d approach as he lay in his dormitory bed, his face serious, eyes dark as he watched her come. He would slide the covers away, and she would climb onto the bed on hands and knees, her skin barely skimming across his, his quiet, shaky gasp welcoming her as—

Kelsey kicked at her ankle.

Celia’s held breath escaped in a rush. No. It would kill her to touch him again without returning to what they’d had, and she couldn’t go back to being trampled over.

She refocused to see him watching her with poorly concealed interest, so she shook her head, leaning one hip against the desk to steady her tense body. “Maybe there are other places like this, for established artists like you.”

He went still, the light draining out of him. “Sure. Maybe.”

He wasn’t going to fight her?

Muffled thumps shook the floor above and the drill started again, filling the echoing space with the familiar song of construction. Her stomach still in knots, Celia watched as León’s casual mantle stole back over him, his shoulders lowering and expressive face softening into a polite mask.

Celia couldn’t pretend as easily. For a minute she thought León had finally shown his hand. But if he had come back for her, why didn’t he press like he used to?

“If you’re done distracting Celia,” Kelsey said, “we could finish this work in ten minutes.”

“I’m done for now,” León replied, stuffing his hands in his pants pockets.

Kelsey clambered from the chair, one hand pressed to her lower back. “Good.”

Carlos appeared on the stairs, juggling an armful of sawn boards. He dropped a short one, which clattered musically down the iron steps. Celia stifled the urge to go pick it up.

“You could help me,” Kelsey was saying to León. “I want to tweet some neighborhood reactions to Incubadora. Positive ones.”

“Sure,” he replied.

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