Page 28 of Since the Day We Left

Miles placed a hand on hers. “I want to.”

For a beat, she could only stare at his calloused fingers resting on hers. A slow flutter unfurled in her stomach. He squeezed her hand lightly and the pressure of his fingers seemed to pull her closer, and for a second, she imagined leaning into him, letting the distance between them disappear completely. But then—he let go.

They pressed on, selecting eight paintings for the auction. The process felt almost ritualistic—choosing what would be seen and what would be remembered. Wendi’s mind worked methodically as she glanced over each piece.

She picked four of the cove during the day: early morning, midday brightness, late afternoon, and one with a soft storm rolling in. Those would offer a range of moods, she thought—serenity balanced by a bit of drama. Then, another two of the cove, this time at twilight in deep purples and blues—a more romantic feel.

Next, she chose a still life—wildflowers in mason jars, both inviting and personal. To round it out, she picked one of a small boat anchored just off the coast. Its soft pastel colors gave it a dreamlike quality.

Once they were done, Miles gathered the paintings, and they walked out the door toward her car. A canopy of stars shimmered overhead, glinting on the water. With each step, Wendi grew more aware of Miles—his height, the scent of bay rum and cedar, and the way his shoulder brushed hers. She tried to ignore it, but it wasimpossible.

A canvas slipped, and Miles caught it just before it hit the ground. The sudden motion brought them even closer.

Inches.

In the moonlight, his brown eyes gleamed, almost golden.

She couldn’t look away. Didn’t want to.

His gaze held hers—deep, steady, pulling her in.

Her pulse quickened.

But what? Was he waiting for her?

Her heart raced. Faster. Faster.

Her lips parted—just barely, just enough.

Closer. She could feel the heat of his breath.

And then—

“Miles?” Arthur’s voice called from the porch.

They sprang apart.

Wendi nearly tripped over her own feet as she jumped back. She let out a startled laugh that came out higher than intended.

“Did we check the mail today? My magazine should’ve come by now.”

“Yes, Dad, we did. It won’t get here until next Monday.”

“I do remember you saying that. Well, didn’t mean to interrupt. Oh yeah, one more thing. Tomorrow I’m going to show you both where I do my best work. How’s three sound, young lady?”

“That sounds perfect,” she called back.

Miles sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I should probably—”

“Of course.” She busied herself with opening the trunk.

When they finished loading the paintings, Miles shut it. “Glad you came over. Dad seems better when you’re around.”

“I mean, I am kind of wonderful.”

“More than kind of.”

She and Miles stood facing each other. What was the protocol here? They weren’t colleagues or just friends, but they weren’t ... whatever that almost-moment had been.

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