Page 58 of Entwined Hearts

“You know, places to go, people to see,” he sighs with a grin. He nods at my sketchbook. “You’re not one to sit still either,” he teases.

I move the sketchbook and pencil to the top of the bedside table.

He eyes it curiously as if asking for permission.

“They’re just sketches,” I explain.

He lifts the edge of the cover. “Will you show me?”

“Sure,” I say, though my voice sounds garbled.

Colby’s eyes fill with warmth. He flips through the pages slowly, tracing the firm lines I’ve pressed into the paper with his index finger, squinting at the small lines of notes I’ve added in the margins. “These are great, Anya,” he says, casting me an admiring glance before returning to the book.

I grin, then hide my glee with a sip of my coffee.

“You should talk to the design team at Marvik about some of these.”

“Toshi knows,” I say, picturing the reedy designer with the thick black glasses and long ponytail.

“What’s he say?”

“Oh, I haven’t shown him anything.”

He closes the book, then caresses the cover. “You should.”

“Thanks for making coffee,” I say to move the conversation away from me.

He leans in to kiss me. “Good morning,” he says, his lips full and soft on mine.

“Good morning,” I sigh, my head swimming with a peaceful buzz.

“So,” he says, all business. “What the hell have you been eating lately? There’s absolutely nothing in that fridge of yours.”

I think about my smoothies and how I need to focus on lean protein. “We could go out,” I say, though I need to make sure wherever we go has eggs or green juice. As I’m racking my brains for just such a place, I remember what’s on my calendar today. “Ack!” I cry, bolting upright. “I’m meeting my mom for lunch today.” I close my eyes. “I forgot.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Does she live in Vegas?”

I shake my head. “No, Phoenix, but she’s here for a gig.”

“Gig?”

My stomach clenches. “She’s, um, a model, sometimes an actress.”

He makes a curious face. “Was she the one who put you in those commercials?”

I look away as my emotions boil together like a toxic soup in my gut. “No, that was my dad.”

Colby climbs onto the bed and sits cross-legged, still cradling his coffee. “I’ve never heard you talk about either of your parents.”

I trace the rim of my coffee cup with the lower part of my fingertip, the part that’s not torn up, letting the heat of the mug warm me.

“Who did you grow up with?”

I pause to let the familiar tug of emotions vibrate through me. “Both, I guess. My mom was usually working or preparing for a role, so I was mostly with my dad.”

“Are your parents climbers?” he asks, sipping his coffee.

“No.”

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