Page 72 of Show Me How
“Maybe not. But you didn’t go back. You didn’t see how hard it would be on your own and drive back home. You’re staying instead.”
Millie looks down at her hands. They’re balled in her lap, and her thumbs are running over her skin, as if she’s trying to scrub them clean of something.
“This was all because of some laundry,” she whispers, finally noticing the sketchbook.
I nod despite no question being asked. “It was never about the laundry.”
I slide my hand onto the bench between us, palm up, offering it to her in case she wants it. She notices the gesture and flicks her lashes up, finally offering me a look at her blue eyes. Even dimmed with the heavy weight of her emotions, they’re still so bright.
And after a long pause, she uncurls one hand and sets it in mine. It’s small the way it always is. But as it trembles, it feels even smaller. Delicate, like if I’m not careful, I could snap it in two.
“Thank you,” she says, voice low.
“For what?”
“For not laughing. And not judging. For not using this as a way to show me just how little I know of the real world.”
“I’m not here to lecture you about laundry, princess.”
She huffs out something between a laugh and an exhale. “Then what are you here for?”
Her eyes dig deep. The demanding gaze tugs out the truth before I can bury it.
“To make sure you don’t fold in on yourself before you figure out how much more there is to you.”
Her breath catches as the washing machine hums louder, kicking into a spin. And still, she doesn’t let go of my hand.
21
MILLIE
Free tonight? My door is open.
Shade’s textwasn’t expected. That’s my fault, honestly. After three days of no lessons, it was only a matter of time before we had another. I guess I just thought it would be me who’d have to ask for one after last time.
His interest is comforting. It’s another reminder that he’s genuinely interested in our agreement instead of just going along with it for my sake.
The studio is dark inside, the lights off. With the sign flipped to Closed, I know that he isn’t here. The door he was talking about is the one along the side of the building that leads upstairs. My stomach rolls with nerves as I sidestep the front of the studio and head along the side.
Since the last time I was here at night, the small light hung on the brick has been replaced, no longer burnt out. It illuminates the walkway, giving me the reassurance of safety that keeps me from shaking with worry. Silence plagues Oak Point at night, even across the street from the diner. Besides a few men in cowboy hats and dirty boots sitting at a table beside the window, it’s empty.
A dark space like this isn’t where I’d have pictured myself ever walking at night. Months ago, I wouldn’t have even entertained the idea of it. My car doors would have stayed locked as I sat outside and shook my head at the place.
So judgmental.
I smooth my hands down my skirt and shiver at the wind that scoops up beneath it, threatening to flip it up. Stifling a curse by biting my tongue, I hold my skirt down and continue toward the door.
It whips open ahead of me, the metal slamming against the brick. I pause, freezing when a man comes out from inside Shade’s building. He’s unfamiliar, almost terrifying. My muscles prime for a fight as I stand still in the shadowed light, gaping at him.
Standing taller and wider than anyone I’ve ever seen, the man snaps his head in my direction, his eyes dark and restless. I struggle to get air into my seizing lungs as he grips the side of the door and stares at me. The black cowboy hat on his head is tipped forward slightly, shielding his face from the pitiful light beside me. I open my mouth, then close it, my mind glitching.
“Careful, kitten. Looks like you’re primed to run scared any minute,” he grunts, voice deep and growled, like he’s pissed off despite the lack of physical reaction.
He steps away from the door and lets it slam closed. I flinch at the bang that rings out in the night. It’s hard to reassure myself that this guy came from Shade’s place. His apartment, not just the shop. He knows him. That means he isn’t a danger to me. But . . . he looks like he could be.
The curl of his fingers at his side tries to make me shrink into myself, but I refuse to run like he assumed I would. Instead, I swallow and tip my chin up, ignoring the tremble in my hands.
“Who are you?” I attack.
