Page 73 of Partnering with the Artist

“I have a great respect for the employees in the service industry,” he says.

“Zakery,” I drone.

“I have no respect for Harry. Appalling who they let in the service industry these days.”

I smile. “Everything will be fine,” I murmur. “I promise. You are a thousand times more kind, and genuine, and loving than Harry could ever dream to be. Even his best pales in comparison to your worst.”

“But I bet Harry let you sleep through the night,” he mumbles.

“Actually, no.” I curl up against him. “He’d call me periodically in the middle of the night asking forfavors, often when he’d been out with friends and had had one too many drinks. I’d turn him down. He’d cuss and say I didn’t love him.I’d be up all night, feeling sick and confused, wondering if I was wrong and society had moved so far away from putting any weight on physical intimacy that I was the one making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Out of nothing?” Zakery whispers. “Maelin, it’s your body. Your body is the most precious thing you possess. What you choose to do with it…that’s no one else’s decision, least of all society’s.”

Yeah.

There.

That.

That’s why I’m in bed with this man and completely at peace.

“My parents are going to adore you, Zakery,” I say, stifling a yawn against his chest. “You never make me question myself or my choices. You never make me feel less than. You have had every opportunity to take advantage of me or coerce me into doing something I don’t want to, but you haven’t even tried. My parents liked Harry, so, you know—” I stifle another yawn. “—the bar is in—” I curse. “Refrain from playing limbo with the devil, and we’ll be just…fine.”

With that, sleep arrests me, and I tumble willingly into its warm embrace.

Chapter 27

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PANTS. Oh, and trauma. BUT LOOK AT THE PANTS.

Maelin

It fits. It fitsperfectly. Every cut, flawless. Every embroidered branch, impeccable.

Giggling chaotically, I circle Zakery in his brand new suit—that I made! Withpants!

It molds to his body, carving him into a glorious prince—from ruffled white ascot, down to his usual black dress shoes.

Speechless, he examines his reflection in the full-length mirror hanging on the wall of my studio. He adjusts one sleeve. The corner of his mouth tugs up. “This is amazing, Maelin.”

“I know,” I squeal. “Thepants. Look at them! Even! Tapered!” I flare my hands toward his crisp pants, freshly ironed so they have thatnicecut. Oh, they are just glorious.Glorious, I tell you.Glorious.

“This is embroidery?” he murmurs, ignoring mypantsas he runs a finger up a curling gold branch and fixes his back toward the mirror, beholding the many branches sweeping across that expanse. “How long did this take you? It’s immaculate.”

It only took me two entire seasons ofAdventure Time, streamed on my phone, over the course of the past week. Butwho cares. I made pants. Even pants. Matching pants. Seamlessly shapelypants.

They look like they just came out of an air fryer they are socrispon him. Just.Crunch.

Ah! I’m so happy.

And he’s still looking at the embroidery, which isjustembroidery. A little twined gold floss here, a little twined white there, for petals, and depth. It’s not a big deal. Not like thepants. My face falls moments before he looks at me.

He blinks.

He says, “Sorry.” Looking down, he gasps. “What are those? On my legs! On my goodness. I have never seen better artistry in my life!”

I toss my arms together and jut my lip, even though I can’t stop my smile.

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