Page 145 of Painting Celia

“You mentioned the food here this morning. Figured you’d be thinking about it.”

She heard him shift the bags again. They must be cold in his arms. “Sorry about hauling it up so many flights.”

He chuckled behind her. “New York is nothing but stairs. I’ve lived in walk-ups higher than this.”

They stopped on the second floor to put ice as quickly as possible into each refrigerator. They were new and still plenty cold inside. It relieved her, knowing that if ice remained when the power came back on, likely the food was still safe.

They climbed the last flight together. Time slowed, and her skin prickled with goosebumps.

She whisked ahead at the top landing, ducking into the pantry, her phone’s light swinging unexpectedly along the walls. León was stripping off his soaked jacket when she emerged with crumpled newspaper and a few cans of food.

“Here,” she said. “It’s all I have to dry off with.” She caught a glimpse of amused black eyes and dripping hair before turning to the stovetop with the cans.

“You’re not going to try to heat those, are you?”

The rustle of newspaper scrubbing over his head was loud in the darkness.

“No,” she said. “I don’t have any saucers for candles.”

Oh hell. No matches, and her stove was gas.

León, however, pulled a lighter from the bag. It took a few tries as it’d gotten damp, but soon a small forest of candles was stuck to cans of coconut milk and black beans and set out on the dining table.

Celia was less nervous now that he was here. A friend, here to help. But still, her body tensed. They had been getting along, sort of! She couldn’t stand a fight with him, not tonight, not with tomorrow looming.

She sat at the long table, candlelight reflecting off its glass top and glowing softly through it onto the floor. León sat at the end, leaving a corner between them.

A loud sheet of rain drummed against the inky black windows, and León looked up at the sound. Celia sneaked an extended glance at him. His skin shone golden in the candlelight, his alert eyes as inky as the windows, tendrils of wet hair stuck to his neck. That sight had always done things to her, and she shivered.

He looked back to her sooner than she’d expected, the force of his eyes on hers like a little kick, that impish twist of his lips giving her a hollow feeling in her stomach. Who was she kidding? They weren’t friends.

Through the glass table, she could see his hands resting between his knees, fingers intertwined but fidgety. For a second, she felt his fingertips trailing over her bare skin, with that faint rasp of paint traces so uniquely León. Two minutes sitting with him, and she was already like this? She jumped up, his surprised eyes following her.

“There’s not a lot of options,” she said, “but I’m sure there’s something I could cook for us.” She walked to the kitchen island as though to start looking.

“If anyone could pull something together, it’s you,” he said.

She closed her eyes. If he was going to pull that fake friendly bullshit tonight, she’d scream.

His voice was too casual. “What are you going to do about tomorrow? Is there a contingency plan for no power?”

She gripped the counter out of his sight, tension burning in her, starting to feel angry but not at León. Here she went again, her old mental floundering. When would she know what she wanted? Was casual better than his old forceful, possessive intensity? Was she hoping for comfort or closure?

“Celia?”

What am I feeling, dammit?

She looked at him over her shoulder, seeing his brows lower in concern. The sight set blood rushing through her. This was León. She was sick of pretending he was just a friend like Andrew. She wanted seduction and distance and comfort all at the same time. She wanted to yell until he turned honest again.

He started to rise from his chair, but she waved him back, and he sat placidly on command. The diplomacy was getting old.

Provocation it would be.

“I only have this handy,” she said, grabbing the bottle of wine off the counter. In vino veritas, right? Caution was about to be thrown to the winds. She walked back to the table and set the wine before him.

“Red so it doesn’t have to be chilled, twist top so it doesn’t need a corkscrew. I don’t have any glasses unpacked, though.” His eyes, looking up at her, had turned deadly serious. “It’ll warm us, at least.” She unscrewed the cap, knuckles white, and set it between them with more clatter on the table than she’d intended.

Never breaking eye contact, he reached for the bottle and took a long swallow, then passed it to her as she sat.

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