Page 34 of The Last Date

“Are you saying that I’m naive?” Her finger tapped directly over my heart. “I’m not that young.”

“I meant fresh as in, untainted. The world hasn’t turned you cynical.”

“Okay. I could see that.”

“How do you feel about tonight?” I asked softly, as she shifted slightly, sinking against my body.

“Everything was absolutely wonderful,” she said. Sasha seemed to drift off for a moment, then opened her eyes again. “Oh, hey. Sarah says that I sometimes snore a bit when I sleep on my back, so feel free to shove me away.”

“Never. I’m sure they are delicate little snores like from a cartoon mouse.”

Sasha half giggled, but she was already drifting off.

“I love you, Sasha,” I murmured against her hair.

“Mmm, love you too,” she murmured, her fingers stretching out to grip my shoulder as her head nestled under my chin.

Instead of falling asleep, my mind began to race. I was going to have to find a way to get her parents to like me , since she’d hopefully be moving in with me someday.

My need to help her begin painting again was also galloping through my mind. She seemed so happy when she talked about it, and I couldn’t imagine why she would have stopped if it was something she enjoyed.

Sasha certainly didn’t have to become a well-known famous artist. She could just enjoy herself, and have a fulfilling hobby.

Then I wondered if

there was any parental influence that might have led her away from her passion. Artists were known for being a bit grungy, sometimes into booze and drugs. They definitely hung out in places where her parents wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on their perfect little daughter.

Perhaps I could help build her up, and get her to try again.

Improving Sasha’s life in every way possible, and keeping her feeling constantly nurtured, was going to be my main focus for the rest of my days. I already had a billion reasons to stay on the right side of the line. Keeping Sasha happy and in my life was now at the very top of the list.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

* Sasha *

Monday morning I tried so hard to focus on my work, but my mind had other plans.

Every time I paused, the memories of Saturday night came flooding back. The way Oakley touched me, his heavy, thick arms around me. Breath on my cheek. Our heartbeats. The sex was amazing, but sleeping with him was more beautiful than I could have ever imagined. Real life was a rude awakening, even though everything was going so well.

Sunday morning he had made me the most delicious omelet I’ve ever had in my life, while insisting I sit at his laptop and make a list of what art supplies I would want if I were to find a little painting studio.

I think he meant it as one of those exercises where if you plan something, you’re sending out the energy to make it happen. But still, it was an absolute blast.

I never wanted to leave his lovely house, and wished that I could have stayed there forever. But duty always calls.

How strange that I was already so accustomed to Oakley’s coffee and breakfast drop off that I missed it when it didn’t appear. But around ten-thirty Monday morning, I got a text.

Oakley: I’m slammed with work all day, sorry I couldn’t bring your coffee.

Me: That’s OK. I have tea and instant coffee in the back.

Oakley: That’s just not good enough for my girl , but today I have to put work first. I hope you understand.

Me: Absolutely. Best of luck with…whatever it is.

Oakley: Ha ha. You’re the absolute best, my angel.

After dusting and sweeping the gallery, I did my slightly obsessive-compulsive round of the room, straightening all of the paintings. I knew on some level that regular people would never notice, but after walking around this room every day for so long, I had a sixth sense about when something was a pinch off-kilter.

---