Page 25 of A Small Town Spring

I’m careful to text Ivy to let her know in advance when I’ll be in the studio, and she’s never there when I arrive.The painting of Kingston’s cottage gets finished within a week, and when it’s dry enough to move, I bring it over to his place and put it in a place of honor in the living room so that Kingston will see it first thing when he gets home.I’ve already decided not to charge him for it—it’s the least I can do after his no-questions-asked yes to letting me, and Luna, stay here.

I work on the picture of Jack and Pete’s house as well.Their place is a little more polished than Kingston’s, neater and more manicured, but it still has charm, and I add Cleo, their dog, which gives the thing a more personal feel.It’ll be close, but I should have it done to present to them at the party.

I hold off on finishing Kingston’s portrait.Something’s stopping me, and I’m not sure what it is.

And Kingston and I keep texting.

At first, it’s just check-ins about the house, him making sure I have everything I need.

Then I send him a picture of Luna sunning herself on his kitchen floor.

He sends me a picture of the laughably tiny fork that came with the salad he bought on the plane back to New York.

I ask him about his nephews, and he sends me some pictures of their latest antics—their mouths stained blue from ice cream truck popsicles.

Looks like they ate a Smurf.

EXACTLY what I told my sister.

The month zips by.I get a text from Pete the day before the party.

Just letting you know Ivy said she’s coming tomorrow.

I already knew it, since she and I talked about it when I was there working yesterday.But I appreciate the well-meaning heads-up.

Kingston texts me, too.

I’ll be getting into Rosedale around dinner time.

I rush around tidying, even though the place isn’t messy, per se, just my usual stacks of magazines and doodles, plus Luna’s cat toys everywhere.I make sure the fridge is stocked, and I make a run downtown to get a box of sugar cookies from Beck’s cookie store.I also stop by my friend Shay’s flower shop to get a bouquet of summer blooms—strong, vibrant stalks that remind me of Kingston.I set the bouquet on the kitchen table and then rethink it.It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

I leave it alone, come back, decide it’s fine.He’ll probably appreciate the gesture.Unless he’s allergic to flowers.That hasn’t come up in our sometimes hours-long text conversations.And now it’s too late to ask.Besides, he’s driving, and I don’t want to distract him.

Instead, I order dinner for delivery, hoping the timing works, and go to shower off the day.It’s been sticky hot all week, with frequent enough rain showers that when the heat ramps up, everything steams.

When I get out of the shower, my hair a sodden lump on my head, I hear a noise from the front room.I hope it’s not Luna getting into trouble, so I pad out to scold her and perhaps corral her in my room.But instead of Luna I find Kingston, big as life, standing and staring at the painting of his cottage where I propped it on the mantel in front of the subpar watercolor he’d hung there.A Louis Vuitton overnight bag is resting on the floor by his feet and he’s wearing milky coffee brown linen trousers, a linen shirt the color of freshly fallen snow.He’s got a trim beard, too.That’s new.How long has it been since I’ve seen him—two whole months?

It’s only when he turns fully my way and his gaze drops approximately to my navel that I remember I’m wearing nothing but a towel.My hair drips onto my shoulders.

“Tobias Eric Wheaton,” he says, uttering my full name in his big voice to great effect.Everything in me snaps to attention, my gaze sharpening on his.My nipples feel conspicuously hard in the air-conditioning, and my grip on the towel tightens.

“Kingston James,” I return as smoothly as I can.“Welcome home.”

He takes a step toward me, and for a moment of horrible anticipation, I think he might touch me.And if he did that, I’d embarrass myself for sure.But he doesn’t reach out and I give him a crooked smile.“I thought you were Luna.I’ll get dressed.”

“Wait—”

I pause mid-turn.

He gestures to the painting.“It’s finished.”

“Yes.”

“It’s perfect, Toby.”

I let out an invisible sigh of relief.“You like it?”

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