Page 38 of Fall for Me

Chelsea’s expression was pensive, almost. “I kept my supplies for a long time,” she said. “Even when I stopped showing anyone my stuff.”

For a moment, I wondered, asininely, if she’d stopped because of me. That time.

“Then I gave them away when I moved.” She considered for a moment, then, as if confessing something, said, “I missed it, though, over there.”

“Martha’s Vineyard?”

“Yeah. There was a lot to draw. And the landscapes were all so different from the ones back here. Not better, just… different. But I was so busy with being on my own; learning the ropes at the event company I worked at. Plus, finally having freedom from always having family around… I got kind of caught up with life. I never went back to it.”

“Well, you were good at it. At least back then.”

“You think I’d suck now?”

I gaped, but Chelsea smiled, and just like that, the tension broke.

I shrugged. “Probably.”

She laughed. She knew I was kidding.

I began pouring hot water in the sink; followed by a squirt of soap. “I’m not artistic at all, so I’m always surprised when people don’t use the talents they have.”

Chelsea appeared next to me, pulling a towel from the hook on the counter.

I frowned. “You’re supposed to be relaxing.”

She ignored me, holding her hand out for the dish I was rinsing under the stream of water.

I reached past her and put it on the rack.

Chelsea gaped, but I could see the smile. I did the same to the next one, and that time she huffed while snatching it right off the rack again. The next, she plucked from my hand as I leaned over.

“Not so smooth now, huh?”

I twisted my lips to hide the smile, aware, but not caring that I was treading in slightly dangerous waters. If I were to shift just a few inches over, my arm would brush against hers. So what if I did? What if the next dish I just leaned over so my arm brushed her shoulder? That would be innocent, right? This was all innocent.

Except the sensation riding down my groin just thinking about her soft little body pressed against mine. That was very not innocent.

Getting a boner while washing dishes would be a first. But getting it because of Chelsea would be goddamned shameful.

But for once, I let myself enjoy being next to her. It was just dishes. I asked her about her time in Martha’s Vineyard. She told me about working for a small events company there, and how different it was than the Rolling Hills. How she missed the variety.

“Have you thought about doing something like that here?” I asked.

She’d frowned and half-laughed. “I’m a co-owner of my family resort—the events management job there was made for me.”

I said nothing, but she paused in her circling of a plate with the towel, her expression contemplative. “Don’t you feel obligated to support your family business?”

“Sure, but I know it’s what I want to do. I’ve always known. Plus… I’m making it my own.”

I told Chelsea about how I was trying to grow Reilly and Sons, to transform it into something more dynamic, making more of a legacy. I talked about how that included bidding on the east wing renovation at the Rolling Hills, and possibly some bigger jobs. Though for whatever reason, I didn’t mention Graydon’s job in New York.

As the dishes thinned—and there were hardly any to begin with, so I began taking much longer than I needed to on each—we kept talking. It was so easy being with Chelsea. She asked me more about my favorite artists, and I told her about my favorite parts of the MOMA, which I visited once a year, like Kevin and I used to do with Mom when we were kids. I never told anyone about that trip. Until that moment, I also never told anyone I followed the ritual Mom had set up for us, right down to the letter.

“Okay, spell it out for me,” she said, genuinely curious.

“We’d always stay at the Cozy Inn out in Queens, a tiny motel no one seems to know about, where you can still get a clean room for under a hundred bucks. In the morning, we’d take the train to the museum. Spend the whole morning there and do the alphabet search.”

“What’s that?”

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