Page 75 of Silver Linings
“I know this is uncomfortable for you to hear,” he carries on, “but I need you to know who you are to everyone around you. Being near you is the first time I’ve feltalivein two years. You are important. I’m in this with you. I want you so bad, it physically hurts, but I want to do right by you before we take that next step.”
“Oh.” God, this is so much for me to process. It isn’t a bad thing, but it makes me nervous. I feel like I’m going to fuck it up.
He leans forward and kisses my forehead as my eyelids flutter closed.
“Can I take you on a date?”
My eyes pop open. “What?”
“You heard me. Let me take you on a date.”
My eyes flit back and forth over his face, sincerity shining through every pore. Every time I’m with him, I feel more and more out of my element. I’ve yet to decide if that’s a good or bad thing. I know Kena would tell me it’s a good thing to be pushed out of my comfort zone, that it’s where I would flourish. Maybe he’s right.
“I’ll go on a date with you. No need to beg.”
He tips his head back on a laugh. “Oh, I’d wager there’s plenty of begging in my future.”
My cheeks flame at the implication, but I don’t deny anything. We start to clean up the shop, Hendrix picking up the dinner off the floor and me straightening up the tables and shelves. We intermittently sneak glances at each other that last a little longer than necessary and always end with one of us asking a question to break the tension.
When everything’s settled, Hendrix holds his hand out to me for the second time tonight, and this time, I don’t hesitate to take it. I see the breath he was holding release. “Let’s get ice cream while I walk you home.”
“Are you going to get a grandpa flavor? How many AARP mailers do you get weekly?”
“Rum raisin sounds good.”
“I’ll corrupt you yet.”
“I don’t doubt it, Sunshine.”
twenty-one
. . .
“It’s massively under baked—”
Paul Hollywood fondles the inside of a loaf of bread while chastising some poor amateur baker through the speakers on my phone. I get an hour each day for lunch, and this is how I’ve been spending them lately, legs kicked up on supply boxes, sketch pad propped against my thighs, charcoal pencil in hand.
My thoughts oscillate between the piece I’m drawing and Silver writhing against my shoulders, gasps of pleasure falling from her beautiful mouth. It’s safe to say I’ve been less than productive and sporting a semi every day over the past week. We’ve had a repeat of last weekend nearly every night this week while working in the bookstore, and it has made our progress…less than impressive.
I stare down at the varying shades of gray that make up the design I’ve been working on. It’s a light wood grain, four leg table with intricate floral designs running up and down the legs. Each one is carved with vines wrapping around different flowers. It’s an heirloom piece, something to be passed down from generation to generation.
These are the designs my dad hated. It all comes down to what’s quick and efficient, any ounce of creativity sucked right out of a project. I was a robot producing carbon copies of big box store furniture when I worked for him.
What the hell is the point of doing custom builds if you aren’t going to actuallycustomizeanything to the client? If I had my own shop—I catch myself. There is no point in dwelling on something that isn’t a possibility, I have no capital and no clients. But if I let myself daydream, I could admit I don’t hate the thought of that path, could easily see myself at a work table, sawing and shaping before coming home to Silver with sawdust snowing out of my hair. I’d shower the wood shavings off before cooking us dinner, and we’d spend the rest of the night on the couch—a book in her hand with her legs across my lap, while I trace designs against her skin until she’s too distracted by my touch to read anymore.
A knock on the door jolts me out of my fantasies and has me sitting upright. Before I can answer the door myself, Mr. Fairbanks steps through, looking around the room with a sneer, drooping jowls making his expression even more severe.
“Hello, sir,” I greet him.
He takes in my discarded notebook, array of charcoal pencils, and the frantic bakers fighting for their loaves of bread on the tiny screen of my phone.
“Hard at work, I see,” he condemns.
“I’m on my lunch break.”
He heaves out a dramatic sigh, indicating his annoyance over not being able to reprimand me, though I’m sure he’ll find his moment sooner or later. Maybe the former, if I can’t get my feelings where Silver is concerned under control.
“It’s been brought to my attention that certain members of staff are being too friendly with some of the tenants.”
