Page 42 of Rock

“Yes, Little one. Always. Except for the few months I was gone for my internship. I came home after that; took a job in town and a role in the MC. I’ve been here all my life.”

She didn’t respond.

He had a million questions for her. “Can I askyousomething?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Do you still sketch?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you get your education degree?”

“Yes. I taught art in a high school for thirty years. I retired a few years ago.”

“Retired, huh?” That was good news. Maybe she didn’t have to be somewhere specific after she sold the house.

“Thirty years is long enough to deal with teenagers. Trust me.”

He chuckled. “I can imagine. I was certainly glad when my kids exited that phase of life.”

“I’m sorry about your wife,” she whispered. “That must have been hard.”

“It was, but I had the club for support and to help me out. My kids are good humans. I’m very lucky.” He stroked her armagain, loving the goosebumps that rose. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out with your husband.”

She sighed. “Yeah. I don’t think I was fully invested.”

Because of me?That was crazy thinking. It was possible she hadn’t thought of Rock a single time in those years, but he sort of liked to think no one had been able to measure up to him. Very caveman of him.

Rock buried his face in her hair and inhaled deeply. Her scent hadn’t changed. She used the same shampoo or something similar. He never wanted to take a break to exhale.

“Where do you live?”

“I moved to Florida to be near my parents after I retired. I have a condo a few miles from them. My mother is in poor health, but my father manages fine.”

“And Jackson?”

“He lives in New York. He’s divorced. Two adult children. Living life. I guess you didn’t stay in contact with him?”

“No. I never saw him again after your parents moved away.”

“It was hard in those days. No cell phones. No internet.”

“Yes.” He kept touching her, stroking her arm. It was soothing. He was afraid to ask the hard questions, so he didn’t. Not yet. They would have to talk about the difficult things eventually, but not now.

She threaded her fingers with his—the arm he had stretched under her neck.

“Were those sketchpads I saw in your satchel?”

“Yeah.” She twisted her neck to meet his gaze in the dim light. “Don’t look at them,” she demanded.

He furrowed his brow. “You still don’t like anyone to see your work?” That was one of the first things she’d told him when they’d met.

“No. It’s… My sketches are really just doodles. They’re personal. I don’t like to share.”

“I bet you’re an amazing artist. Too bad you keep it hidden.”

“Peoplehaveseen my art. After all, I taught it for thirty years. Just not my sketchpads.”

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