Page 64 of Neat
The longer he stood there, the more I wanted to fall into him, to pull him into me and kiss him right there in front of God and my family and everyone else.
It was insane. I was absolutely certifiable to even consider it.
And yet, it was all I wanted.
“Speaking of the cat,” he said. “Where is Dalí? It’s notDalí and Mal’s Art Studioif Dalí isn’t here, is it?”
“He’s upstairs. God knows he’d probably shit himself and hide in the corner shaking being around all these people.”
“Or he’d just walk under their feet and eat the crumbs they drop, flicking his tail in a bored fashion as he frolicked from person to person.”
“And he’d whisperpeasantsunder his breath.”
“Of course, because it’s his kingdom, after all.”
I chuckled. The name of the studio had been the one thing I hadn’t been able to figure out, and when we started filing the necessary paperwork to open the doors, we had to pick one. It’d been Logan who had suggested Dalí and Mal’s, and when he’d said it, I could have kissed him for how perfect it was.
Okay, I maybedidkiss him.
My parents hated it, of course. Even Chris wrinkled his nose at the name when I’d told him. But it was perfect, for more reasons than just the fact that we had a shop cat. Salvador Dalí was one of the most unconventional artists of his time, and one of my biggest inspirations. Honoring his name with the name of my studio was perfect.
And, of course, Logan knew that.
Because Logan knewme.
“I… uh…” Logan held up the square, one-inch thick box in his hand, bringing me back to the moment with him. “I got you something else.”
“Anal beads?”
Logan barked out a laugh, shaking off the tension that had been hanging over us like a cloud. “Not exactly, although now I kind of wish I had.”
“Next time,” I teased, and then I took the box from him, giving it a little shake like a kid at Christmas before I carefully pulled off the top. Inside was a simple gold frame around an all-glass, thin shadow box. There was a white rectangle in the center, and above it, written in black script, were the wordsDalí and Mal’s First Dollar.
I frowned, tracing the words with my fingertips before I looked up at Logan, confused.
“It’s… you know, it’s for your first sale,” he said, shrugging and reaching for the back of his neck again. He pointed to the rectangle inside the frame. “You put your first dollar there, and then you can hang it up behind the register. I mean, I know it’s a Square register now, and everything is digital, and your first class will probably be paid for with card. But, you could take a dollar out of the register, anyway. And pretend. You know? Just, as a symbol.”
I smiled.
“It’s a thing, a lot of old businesses used to do it. I think new ones still do. I don’t know.” He let his hand drop, reaching for the frame. “It’s stupid. I’m sorry.”
I yanked the frame out of his reach. “No! I love it.”
“Are you sure?”
I chuckled, touching his arm. “Logan, I love it. It’s thoughtful. It… it means you believe this place will be around for a while, that it will have history.”
“It will,” he said immediately, effortlessly, as if he’d never believed anything to be more true in his life. “It will, Mallory. Because it’s you.”
His hand covered the one I’d placed on his arm, squeezing it, holding it for a moment before he let it go and cleared his throat, taking a sizable step back from me.
“I’m going to go make myself scarce,” he said. “Talk to the other tour guides who are here from the distillery, keep busy, stay out of the way. You know, just so I don’t give your father an aneurysm, or anyone else in this town ammo for Sunday morning church gossip.”
I laughed, looking around the room at the eyes that were on us. “Might be too late for that, but yes, good idea.”
“I’ll see you around.”
“Wait,” I said before he could turn away. “Can you stay after?” I swallowed. “There’s something I want to show you.”
