Page 13 of The Art of Loving You

For a few minutes, we just ate, the conversation easy. It was too easy—dangerously so. The kind of comfort that made it hard to remember why I needed to keep my distance.

Then Lucas spoke, his tone quieter. “You’re doing great, you know.”

I blinked. “With what?”

“With Bess. With everything.” He met my eyes. “Most people would struggle with what you’re juggling. But you’re handling it.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I don’t always feel like I’m handling it.”

“That’s because you care,” he said simply. “And if you ever need help, I’m here.”

There was something in his voice—a certainty that unsettled me. It wasn’t an empty promise. It was real.

And that was terrifying.

Lucas insisted on driving me. I protested, but he waved me off with his usual easy confidence. “You’re in a rush. I can get you there faster.”

I didn’t have the energy to argue. The silence in the car was comfortable, broken only by the soft hum of the engine.

“You’re staring again,” he said, amusement in his tone.

I scoffed. “I’m thinking.”

“About?”

“How long it’ll take to get Bess ready. If her shoes aren’texactlyright, it’s a whole ordeal.”

Lucas chuckled. “She knows what she wants.”

“She really does. Stubborn streak and all.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” he said, casting me a sideways glance.

I rolled my eyes. “Are you calling me stubborn?”

“Not calling. Just observing.”

I shook my head, smiling despite myself.

Then he surprised me. “You don’t have to be perfect, Ella. Bess doesn’t need perfect. She just needsyou.”

His words hit harder than I wanted them to.

As we pulled onto my street, he spoke again. “I’ll call Anthony at the Met. He might help with those Chagall pieces.”

I looked at him, surprised. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

That word again. Help. The kind that didn’t come with conditions.

I hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.”

By the time Bess and I arrived, the birthday party was in full swing. She eagerly bounced out of the car with the gift bag we’d prepared. The backyard was filled with balloons, streamers, and kids darting between an inflatable slide and a table of cupcakes. Bess found her friends and waved goodbye, leaving me by the gift table. Seeing her so happy was a relief.

“Ella! Over here!”

I turned to see Marie, my assistant, at a table waving from under a shade tree. She was there with her son, Jude, who was busy shoving fistfuls of popcorn into his mouth.

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