Page 22 of Blank Canvas

I want to look up. Want to stop staring at the same drop of condensation on the water glass. Want to unhear that my lunch partner, the guy I have an undeniable crush on, looks young enough to be myson. Or that I look old enough to be hismother.

My stomach flips and I close my eyes. Take a few deep breaths and beg the contents to stay down.

Calmer, I open my eyes and look up. Meet his gaze and try to read the unspoken thoughts in his expression. But the server returns, hands Devlyn the check presenter, apologizes again, and wishes us a good day before she dashes away.

Exiting the restaurant is a blur. I barely hear or register Devlyn telling us we can walk to the museum. I just follow alongside him, trusting he won’t let me stray or bump into anyone.

Most opinions don’t hit me like this. Don’t render me speechless. Don’t muddle my thoughts so thoroughly.

But her assumption is a slap in the face. A punch to the gut. It makes me question myself. Makes me question if hanging out with Devlyn, as friends or something more, is a good idea.

I want this—us—to be a good idea. I want it to be more.

Ten years may divide us, but I have never felt closer to another person. Does that make this—us—wrong? If only I had the answer.

EIGHT

DEVLYN

I hate this.Hate that something so trivial bothers her this deeply.

Yes, there is a ten-year age difference between us. Yes, I look younger than my actual age. But damn, I sure as hell don’t look young enough to be Shelly’s child. And Shelly sure as shit doesn’t look old enough to parent a grown-ass adult.

What bothers me most is how deeply the woman’s preconceived idea sticks. How Shelly has let it sink its claws in, make roots, and sour her mood. And the mood for the day.

More than anything, I hate how much I care. How my mind won’t let the matter go. And how much I want to storm back into the restaurant and complain. Question the server’s ability to see clearly or think before opening her mouth. My heart isn’t cold. Cruelty isn’t how I approach situations. And dammit, I shouldn’t care this much.

Ican’tcare this much.

Things between me and Shelly should stay casual. For her sake and mine. Shelly is my friend.Just a friend.

Friend or not, I damn sure won’t let anyone drag her down or make her feel less than. Intentional or accidental.

Distress turns her aura stormy gray, and I don’t like the shift in her energy. I much prefer the raspberry red I often see around her. The passion and strength and love. Qualities that magnetize me to her.

I bump her arm with mine as we walk past storefronts. “Hey.” She doesn’t lift her gaze. Doesn’t answer. Just keeps her eyes ahead and semi-downcast, still in a daze. So, I bump her again. “Hey,” I repeat, a touch louder.

She snaps out of her momentary fog and grants me her full attention. A nameless emotion burns white hot inside me as I stare back at the dulled color in her irises. Eyes that would no doubt shimmer in the sun. Radiate and add a new layer of appeal. An appeal I work hard to shut down.

Just a friend.

“Sorry,” she says just above a whisper. “That was just…” Shelly leaves the rest unsaid. Leaves me mentally bereft.

Nope. Not having it.

I reach for her elbow, steer her away from other people on the sidewalk, and stop us under a store awning. “Was just what?”

I shouldn’t care this much. Shouldn’t worry about a statement from someone neither of us will see again. But it isn’t so much what the woman said that bothers me. It is the fact Shelly is so thrown off by the misunderstanding.

“Does it not upset or frustrate you? What she said.” She points down the street toward the restaurant.

Please don’t let her think I am dismissing her feelings. “Actually, no.” Her forehead scrunches in confusion, disbelief, hurt. I hurry to explain my reasoning. “Shelly, if I let other people’s opinions rule my life, I would be disappointed or depressed or irritated more often than not. I’d rather spend my energy on what makes me happy.” I glance down the sidewalk, let my eyes lose focus. “The last time I let someone’s words consume me, it almost cost me my life.” Blinking, I turn back to her. “And I won’t do that again.”

Her dazzling twilight irises glass over. Breathtaking and tragic at the same time. The idea of Shelly in pain—whether physical, mental, or emotional—bothers me on an unhealthy level. But seeing her exposed and vulnerable, seeing her look at me with hundreds of questions in her eyes, has my soul begging for more. More of her heart. And me giving her more of mine.

I should not want either.

I cannot want either.

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