Page 78 of Forgotten Romance

His jaw tics, and at first, I think he’s going to agree with me, but he changes course. “You could try building something in the house?”

“With Kiera and Van around?”

“They love doing it with you.” He pauses. “Maybe we could go home and build something together?”

“Like the Millennium Falcon you broke?”

“Hey, I said I was sorry!” His blush has started to come back, and it’s so fucking adorable. “And I don’t think I’m up to something like that.”

“Relax. It would take way too long anyway. That might be a project for when I’m home … more …” I almost say permanently, but I don’t want to put that in his head yet.

“You were serious then?” he whispers. “About figuring something out.”

“I’m serious about wanting to try.”

His sweet blue eyes meet mine, and they’re filled with so much hope it takes my breath away. “Do you think your job would let you have more time working from home?”

No. They couldn’t even give me this one. If they had, I probably wouldn’t be ready to jump ship on them. They’ve given me a lot of good years, but when it comes right down to it, they’re a big company, and I’m one person. One person who’s easy enough to replace. “I can only ask, right?”

Thankfully, conversation steers away from work. Mack fills me in on the gossip from the library, and I tell him about gossip from school pickup. We alternate painting and eating, and painting and drinking, and for the first time in so long, our conversation doesn’t revolve around the kids or have that added tension hanging over it.

“Okay, I’m done,” I tell him. It’s not a masterpiece, but it turned out better than I thought it would. At least it sort of vaguely looks like a badly painted version of him. His hair, skin, and eyes are all remotely the same color.

“Ah …” His eyes swing from his painting to me, and he exposes his teeth. “I think I’m … done.”

“I’ll go first.” I turn the picture around, trying not to laugh, and the look that crosses his face is a mixture of horror and amusement.

“That’s actually not terrible,” he says, choking on his words. “I’m not sure what it is, but it’s not terrible.”

“Okay, Michelangelo. Your turn.”

He snatches up the canvas before I can and clutches it in front of his chest. “It needs time to, uh, dry.”

“Bullshit.” I make a gimme motion with my hands. “Show me.”

Mack’s shoulders are already shaking with silent laughter as he turns the canvas and whispers, “I’m so sorry.”

It’s an assault on my vision. The zigzags of my curls, how he’s painted my skin so dark I’m the wrong ethnicity altogether, and he’s had to make my freckles yellow to stand out, my football-shaped skull, or how my eyes are so misaligned one of them is almost touching my mouth.

Mack and I stare at each other. Then at Franken-Davey. Then back to each other again.

The laugh that tears from me sounds like some kind of animal call, and Mack follows right behind me.

We laugh until my stomach hurts, and then we laugh some more.

24

Mack

I’m more than a little tipsy and happy by the time we get home. Davey’s driving, so he only had two, but the combination of my lack of artistic skills and the good food made the beers slide down too easily.

Tonight was like old times.

As soon as we step inside, he kicks off his boots, and I follow before we hang our coats in the hall cupboard. The heat was left on, so it’s not too bad inside, but it’s going to take a minute for my face to thaw out.

“Thanks for tonight,” I say, dopey grin stretched wide. “You’ve still got it.”

“My date game is strong.”

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