Page 14 of A Small Town Spring

I think so.Spring is my favorite season.

His reply comes right away.

Mine too.Who can resist renewal and rebirth?

And so many things to look forward to as it warms up.

Like what?

Linen suits.Driving my Beamer with the top down.Inviting myself over to Jack and Pete’s swimming pool.

Do you celebrate Easter?

In a secular way, sure.

Ivy and I are having some folks over for an Easter brunch next weekend.You should come.

Photos on Saturday, brunch on Sunday?It’s a plan.

Great.See you then.

See you then.

He doesn’t write back after that, and I reluctantly put my phone away after rereading the conversation three times.I need to let go of this crush.If Toby and I could become friends, that should be enough.

I fall into a restless sleep, because deep down, I know it won’t be.

Seven

Toby’spunctual for our photo session, which surprises me given his absent-minded artist routine I’ve witnessed.We’ve exchanged a few texts since that first night, to settle on terms for the commission, then most recently yesterday evening when I told him I’d safely arrived in Rosedale.He promised to meet me at my house at eleven.

It’s exactly eleven when the knock sounds on my door.I’m caught slightly unawares, barefoot, mid-coffee.I’ve had a jumpy feeling in my stomach since waking up, similar to the sensation of being about to take an important exam you haven’t studied for.

What is the big deal—I should be able to deal with the man.He’s an artist, not a chemistry test, I remind myself.I open the door, and all that positive self-talk flies out of my head.I could probably manage if he wasn’t so damn perfect.He’s not hot like a gym bunny or an oiled fifties pinup, but when he blinks those long-lashed amber eyes at me, I forget how to string two words together.And reticence has never been an issue for me.

“Kingston, hey,” he says when I don’t speak.His gaze slides down my body to my bare feet and back up to my face.“I was wondering if I’d ever see you in anything less formal than pleated trousers.”

I’m wearing my lazy weekend clothes, loose gray sweats made from cotton softer than a dandelion seed, a white T-shirt (designer, of course), and a loose overshirt, unbuttoned, in a blocky black-and-white pattern.I haven’t bothered pulling my hair back and my locs hang loose—the ends brushing my shoulders.

Toby’s wearing the jeans I remember from my visit to his studio and another black sweater, but this one doesn’t have any holes in it.Instead of loafers with white athletic socks, he’s got on sneakers.With white athletic socks.

“Well, it’s Saturday,” I say, finding my voice and hoping it sounds normal.

“So it is.Lovely place you’ve got here.”

I realize I haven’t asked him in, just let him stand at my front door while taking inventory.Get it together, James.

“Thanks, come on in.I was just finishing my coffee.Would you like some?”The good host in me finally makes an appearance.

“No, thanks.”He lifts a black camera bag.“Is it okay if I start taking pictures?”

“Of the inside?”I ask, passing him to lead the way into the living room.

“Of whatever,” he says ambiguously, glancing around.“I tend to snap away obnoxiously, I’m afraid.”

I wave my hand.“Then snap away.”

He opens the bag and brings out a much smaller camera than I expected.It’s a black rectangle barely bigger than his palm.

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