Page 20 of Painting Celia

Andrew was getting a phone number from a woman at the bar.

“I hope he doesn’t bring her home,” León said. “I end up hanging out by the bodega for hours.”

Celia turned back, her gentle voice close. “Oh no.”

He sat back and drank again. Having a conversation without looking at her was a handicap. But, at least it made her talk—she couldn’t just make those big serious eyes at everything.

Delays and handicaps and fading paintings. He had to make something good happen! Time to butter her up a little and work around to letting him paint longer.

He set the drink back down, looking into it. “You haven’t been around,” he said. “Everything good?”

Her stillness and silence started to become an answer, but as he opened his mouth, she swept her napkin tightly into her lap and spoke.

“Good. Yes.” He heard a quick determined-sounding breath. “Getting out and socializing. It’s good.”

He rubbed fingers over his mouth, hopefully concealing his smile. Man, she really hated socializing.

“How is the painting?” she asked quickly.

Well.

He ran a hand through his hair, still looking down at the table. He had to ask the right way.

“This is weird now,” she said. “It’s okay to look at me, sometimes.”

That would help. Gladly, León looked up at her earnest eyes, the amber light turning them a mossy gray-green he could match with cadmium yellow and—wait. Don’t.

“I’m about done with the painting,” he admitted. “I thought I might ask for a few more nights, though. This one isn’t grabbing me, you know?”

Her brows lowered in sympathy as she nodded. Either his charm was working, or she felt familiar enough to show expressions. Good.

“You ever look at art, and it really grabs you?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said at once. “In Paris, once.” Her eyes were wide, the napkin crushed in a fist in her lap.

“This painting just didn’t get there. If I can try one more time….”

Her utter focus on him was gratifying.

“I only have a few months to succeed out here,” he continued. “I have to keep trying. The next painting might be the one that saves me from going back.”

Her quiet little gasp surprised and delighted him. Look at that spark in her! She got it! She was hanging on his words like—

“Do you want to move into my pool house?”

Jesus.

No. But yes.

He watched crimson bloom across her chest, her neck, her cheeks.

It would solve so many of his problems.

“In exchange,” he said, thumb tapping against his thigh, “I give you painting lessons. Like Andrew said. Right?”

She placed her hands over her hot cheeks, then pulled them back to look at her palms as if confused about where the heat had come from.

“How many lessons, though? How often?” he asked.

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