Page 74 of On the Line

The way he looks at me feels like being seen for the first time.

I hope he sees the same thing in my eyes.

When he offers his hand, I take it.

“Let’s get you warmed up,” he rasps.

I turn off the light and climb under the covers beside him.

Our bodies are clammy, the cold still seeped deep. Taking the duvet, he wraps it tight around me, while his arms do the same. I melt into his chest, my arms curled up tight between us. He puts one leg over mine, tugging me even closer. Our hips lock into place against one another and I let out a satisfied sigh. “This is nice,” I murmur, the cold tip of my nose burrowing itself into the warmth of his neck. Ozzy stays silent. I don’t expect much of an answer. Especially when my eyes are already falling closed, the rise of his chest like a hypnotic lullaby.

I’m barely conscious, halfway asleep when I hear him whisper in my hair.

“It’s where you belong.”

It’searly morning when I wake up and find Ozzy sitting on the edge of the bed. He’s naked, his back facing me, holding one of my latest paintings in his hands that I had left on my desk. It’s small, the size of a notebook. Simple too: Three oysters on a plate of ice with a slice of lemon.

Hearing the rustle of the sheets, he turns around.

A few messy curls fall on his forehead, his smile subdued as if still lost in thought.

“Morning, baby.”

“Morning,” I reply with a smile of my own.

“When did you make this?” he asks, referring to the painting in his hand.

“A few days ago.” My voice is still deep with sleep. And then, a little timidly. “Do you like it?”

“Like it?” His eyebrows raise in surprise. “I love it.”

I don’t linger on the feeling of how good hearing him say that makes me feel, instead I say, “You can have it if you want.”

His eyes light up with a spark I haven’t seen since he met me at the park. “Really?”

I nod my answer, a bashful smile on my lips.

He looks down at the painting, and then back up, grinning. “Thank you.” Then he falls serious, dropping his smile. “I’ve got to go.”

“It’s not even eight a.m. yet,” I say in a half-hearted protest, checking the time.

“I know.” Leaning over, he grabs my chin between his thumb and finger, kissing me softly as if in apology. Standing up, he walks to his jeans still crumpled on the floor. “I just …” He stops himself, looking like he’s weighing his words. It’s clear this is a personal issue, and if I had to guess why he’s not opening up to me, it’s because I’m the one who asked to keep things casual. I stew in my poor decisions and wait for him to finish his sentence. “There’s just a few things I’ve got to do before work.”

I decide to drop the subject and wince watching him put on his jeans. “Those must still be wet,” I say with an appalled expression.

He chuckles, jumping a few times to get them on. “Yeah, they are. We had fun though didn’t we,” he drawls with a wink.

My cheeks heat, remembering our little public romp last night. “Never thought I was such an exhibitionist,” I reply with a laugh.

With his shirt, also still wet, back on, he jogs back to thebed and leans down, smiling. “Never change, princess,” he says, stroking my cheek before kissing me. “You’re perfect just the way you are.”

My words catch in my throat. He waves goodbye while grabbing the painting on his way out, and I give him a small wave back.

His last words echo in my ears for the rest of the day.

30

JAMES

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