Page 63 of Trusting You

17

Carter

I’m nervous.

I’m so anxious my fingers are giving out during every attempt to lift my artwork from the floor and hand it to Pierce, a lean, salt-and-pepper styled, happily-married father of three.

But I’m not telling Locke that.

The way Locke responded to my saying I’m receiving help from another man—oh, the horror—with his brows ramming down and the tendons of his forearms standing out as he crossed them, his feet splaying out all caveman style. He might as well have lifted one leg and sprayed his scent all over me.

What is Locke thinking? He doesn’t own me. He hasn’t even kissed me. So, what, I live with him. I’m helping him adjust to a baby daughter. None of that gives him the right to lay claim like I’m some boon he found on his woodland travels that he now wants to clonk on the head and drag back to his lair.

But…and I’m ashamed to admit it, if Paige were here, she’d for sure smack me between the eyes…but…

It makes me feel kinda sexy.

And now I imagine what else I can do to make Locke jealous. What can unleash the beast that had to be in there for him to succeed in dominating football since high school? Oh, I want to know.

The place between my legs wants to know.

And, thanks to all that, my nerves are coated with sexual angst in addition to the fear of displaying my work for strangers to critique.

No, not simply strangers. New Yorkers.

“Dude, what a way to pop your cherry.”

I hear Paige’s ghostly whisper like she’s right beside me, and I have to stop myself from asking aloud, Do you mean Locke or my paintings?

“They’ll either tear your canvas to shreds or make you go viral,” Paige answers for me.

I nod. Paige has never been more correct.

“That’s the last of it,” Pierce says as he rubs his hands together. His black T-shirt is covered in that weird paper dust that all cardboard boxes bring. I’m sure my dark green romper looks the same.

“Thanks for your help,” I say, hands on my hips as I study the bare brick walls, painted a distressed white, where my art will hang. Six faded spots where other artists have tried, maybe succeeded, maybe failed, to begin imprinting their names into unknown minds.

“I’ll hang each in the spare areas you see,” Pierce continues, pointing for effect. “Below, I’ll display your name, the price, and your QR code.”

“My QR code?”

His pale green eyes take me in, and he cocks a hand on his hip. “Do not tell me what I think you’re about to tell me.”

“Uh…”

He holds up a finger. “Don’t. Don’t do it.”

“What’s a QR code?”

“Lord Almighty,” he sighs to the ceiling. “Behold, I’ve met my first millennial who doesn’t know what the internet is.”

“I know what the web is.”

“You just called it a web.”

“Isn’t that what it is?” I splay out my hands. “Websites?”

“Good lord. Come here.” He ushers me to a table and calls to the coffee bar, “Cameron, we’re going to need two double espressos, stat.”

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