Page 121 of Proposal Play

“You can do it later,” I say softly, hoping he lets go of this worry.

He sighs, then settles into bed.

I drift off, but I have a feeling he doesn’t. When I wake up for good a little later, he’s gone once again. My jaw tightens. I wish he’d sleep more. But maybe my husband is a vampire.

On Wednesday after I complete my work on the mural for the day, I slip off to the tiny studio to finish some lamps I need to bring to the next night market. The other artist I share space with isn’t here tonight, so it’s all mine. I make good progress, so I’m done sooner than expected. Asher said he’d pick me up after his evening workout (thank you, goddesses, for his commitment to his abs and glutes), which means I’ve got a free hour. I shift my focus tomirrors, playing around with one I’ve been working on for a while, picking up a fine paintbrush to add some red to the tiny outline of a woman's dress in the corner when a few strands of my hair fall out of my messy bun. I brush them away from my eyes and continue working.

As I gently, but precisely blend the red to the perfect shade, I lose track of time until sneakers slap on the concrete floor, then I catch the scent of soap. The temperature in me ticks up as I raise my face, meeting Asher’s gaze. One of the other artists must have let him in. The studio space is divided into multiple small rooms. He’s right next to me, and his green eyes glimmer with that mischievous look he gets sometimes. His lips curve up in the slightest grin.

“Hi,” I say, my own smile forming to match his. “Why are you smiling?”

He leans forward and brushes a finger across my cheek, swiping a daub of…red. He holds it up. “You have paint on your cheek.”

“Shocking,” I say.

His gaze drifts down. “Also…”

I follow his eyes. “Oh.”

That smile of his deepens when I lift a hand to swipe the red off my chest, right above the V-neck of my shirt, visible even though I’m wearing a smock. But he’s faster, catching my wrist before I can touch my skin. “I’ve got it,” he says, then slowly strokes his finger through the smudge like it’s the highlight of his day.

Well, right now it feels like the highlight of mine. So does watching him walk to the nearby industrial sink, wet the corner of a clean rag, then return to me, finishing up what he began with lingering, sensual caresses. “All gone now.”

“But you liked the way it looked,” I say, teasingly.

“So much,” he says.

When we return home, he shows me exactly how much he liked it when he hikes me up on the kitchen counter and gives me the real highlight of my day. After we’re both panting and satisfied, I say, “Things I learned today—my best friend thinks I look good in paint.”

I climb down from the ladder on Thursday afternoon, wipe my hands on my paint-stained T-shirt, and take a few steps back to survey my work. I’ve only just begun the mural, but the corner looks good with the start of a stylized trolley car. I take it in, then let my gaze wander down the length of it. This thing is no joke. I finished sketching the chalk outlines onto the grid earlier this week. Now I’m finally painting it, which should take a month at least. Still faster than most other murals of this size, but that’s Eleanor for you. She operates at top speed all the time, and I suppose that’s good since Angelina has been working withCalifornia Styleon sending a photographer in a couple weeks for the spread.

Such a strange thought. A cool one too. I wipe my hands on a dust rag, then gather up my supplies to set them aside for the night when a peppy voice echoes across the cavernous hallway, accompanied by the lope of paws.

“It looks so good!”

I turn to find Holmes and Eleanor striding my way, the woman’s Converse sneakers smacking against the floor. She cuts an interesting image in slacks, a blazer, and Chucks. But if the fashion world has taught us anythingrecently, it’s that heels can go fuck off. Holmes reaches me first, parking his fluffy little butt down and wagging his tail.

I bend to scratch his chin, and his tail thumps harder. “Hey, cutie,” I say.

“Thank you for not embarrassing me again in front of the talent,” Eleanor says to the dog, who’s not humping my leg but is looking at it like he dreams of doggy-style.

As for me, I love being calledthe talent. “He’s a very good boy,” I say.

“And that is a very good start to the mural,” she says, admiring the trolley I’ve been drawing. She parks her hands on her hips, checking out the grid that extends for more than forty feet. There’s a proud smile on her face. “Look at us—living the dream. Making art and talking trades,” she says.

That catches my attention. “Asher?” The word flies out before I can think twice about it.

She shakes her head. “No. Not him. I’ve no plans to trade him away,” she says, and immediately I wonder if he has a no-trade clause. I think so, but I should ask him. “But I have my eyes on some talent. We’ll see how things go. I asked my GM to make some calls today.”

Am I her new best friend or something? Why is she telling me about her wheeling and dealing? “That’s…cool.”

But then she waves her hand, her huge diamond ring sparkling as she sets it on Holmes’s little head. “But that’s all in a day’s work.”

Oh, okay. It’s no big deal she’s saying that. I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m lucky Asher’s played here his whole career. Maybe that means he won’t ever be traded.

As I put my chalks away, footsteps click across the concrete.

“Hey, honey.”

---