Page 87 of The Pocket Pair

“Thanks?”

He frowns, so maybe it really is Mr. Silver. “Why do you sound surprised?”

I put my brush in water, shaking it a little until the clear water clouds blue with paint. Crossing my arms, I face him again. “Maybe because that’s the first nice thing you’ve ever said about my work.”

The frown goes deeper. He steps farther into the studio, walking along the wall where I’ve got a whole row of finished canvases, ready for Tank to pick them up.

“I only ever saw the pieces you showed me back in December,” Mr. Silver says, tilting his head to examine one in a series of blues.

“And do you remember what you said about them? Because I do.” His words are carved somewhere deep within me. “I think one of the words you used was uninspired.”

He grimaces, then moves on to the next painting. “That may have been … undeserved. And a little harsh.”

“If this is your way of apologizing, you’re not very good at it.”

Sighing heavily, Mr. Silver turns to face me with a look like I’m his dentist about to perform a double root canal. “I apologize. You caught me on a rough day with the boys and, well, I wasn’t in a place to say a word to anyone about anything. I am sorry. Truly.”

I think I may have swallowed my tongue. That’s why I can’t respond.

Then he says, “I looked up Luis Henry Aguilar, by the way. He’s good, and I think it will be good for you. That kind of apprenticeship always is. But I hope you don’t lose your sense of your own style. You’re really coming into your own. When are you planning to leave?”

I gulp, because going soon is the last thing I want to think about. Couldn’t he have just stopped with the kind words and compliments and the sudden showing of a softy under the hard exterior?

“I’m still not sure,” I hedge.

“I wouldn’t want to see you give it up because of a man.”

“I won’t,” I say, but the words are hard-fought. I need to go to Costa Rica. I know this. It’s a sense I have deep within my bones that it’s the right choice. I wouldn’t let a relationship—even one as blissful as mine is with Chevy—make me change my plans.

And yet … I can hardly stomach the thought of leaving him.

As though conjured by my thoughts of him, Chevy appears, knocking on the already open door. A smile is on his lips until he blinks, his eyes darting to all the paintings that he helped carry in while they were still wrapped up and the new ones I’ve done since.

His eyes and his expression are filled not with appreciation but pure awe. “Wow, Tiny. Look at these!”

My blush is immediate and hot, not creeping but zooming up my neck and cheeks. My smile is just the same: fast and wide. “Thank you.”

Mr. Silver gives Chevy a nod, then leaves without a goodbye to either of us. Unexpected compliments and apologies, he’s still Mr. Silver. Brusque. Judgy. A little harsh.

Though I want to throw myself in Chevy’s arms every time I see him now that I CAN throw myself in his arms, I stay by my easel, watching him walk through the room. Each time his gaze lands on a painting, I feel as though it’s on me—his eyes traveling over my bare skin. My blush stays, joined now by goosebumps climbing my arms and legs.

When he finally finishes his perusal, I’m shaking where I stand. Chevy stares at me, like I’m someone he’s never seen before. A stranger he greatly admires—and maybe wants to ravish.

That last part I’m basing on the way his eyes darken as he stalks across the room. He stops just short of me, his chest mere inches from mine. The air between us and around us feels suddenly charged. I halfway expect my individual hairs to start lifting from my head like they’re being pulled by static electricity.

“Valentina,” Chevy says, my name on his lips a caress. “You are so beautiful. And I’m completely blown away by the way you can take your beauty and push it out onto a canvas.” He shakes his head, and I resist the urge to grab him and pull his mouth to mine. “I don’t really get art, so I don’t know the right words to say but—”

“Your words are just fine, Chev. More than fine. They’re … everything.”

The tension building between us reaches an almost unbearable level, a full-body throb. But still, neither of us makes a move, letting the electric hum in the air rise and crest around us.

“Can I watch you?” he asks, his voice husky and unsure.

“Watch me paint?”

He nods, then tilts his head toward the big canvas I’ve nearly finished. “You were working this morning. I’d love to watch.”

I shift my weight between my bare feet. “You want to watch me? It’s pretty boring.”

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