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I’m not hiding from Mari and Harlan this time—just the baby.
I type back.
Nova: Be there soon.
I slip on my shoes and check my reflection in the mirror before sneaking out the front door. My hair is tied up in a blond-pink ponytail, and my blue minidress flares out around my hips from a bright rainbow belt.
Clay’s car is at the end of the driveway, and I’m panting as I reach for the handle.
“Tell me you didn’t go down the drainpipe,” he murmurs as I tumble inside.
“Almost. Emily’s going through a phase. I swear a butterfly flaps its wings on the other side of the world, and this baby wakes up.”
Since he helped me find the studio, we’ve been texting, but we’ve both been busy and we haven’t had time together in person. Tonight, he offered me a ride, saying he was driving a few other people.
“Where’s Rookie? And Jay?” I ask, realizing we’re alone.
“They, ah, decided to go ahead solo.”
I reach for my seatbelt. “So, no babysitting.”
“You mean them or us?”
Clay’s voice is light, but there’s an edge under it that makes my heartbeat accelerate.
It changes things, being alone with him.
We haven’t been physical since the club, and every time I see him, I want.
Damn, do I want.
He puts the car in gear and swings toward the road, pausing to check for traffic. At the same time, he does a slow sweep of my outfit, lingering on a few places.
“You’re a rainbow,” he says. Clay brushes a finger next to the bright purple painted star on my cheek. “You look good.”
“The face painting inspired me. What about you?”
“I don’t have a costume.” He pulls onto the street.
“I thought you’d say that.” With a flourish, I pull out the crown I bought. “Now you’re the king of the court.”
He bends his head so I can set it on top. When he straightens, the crown nearly brushes the top of the car, but it doesn’t matter. He’s powerful and sexy.
“How’s the studio space working out?” Clay asks.
“It’s great. I’m finishing up pieces for the show in New York next week.” I shift, crossing my legs.
“Are you going to invite me?”
“Oh God. Please don’t come. I feel good about the pieces, but I’m still learning to have a thicker skin since LA. Plus, aren’t you playing back-to-backs next week?”
“Technically, yeah.”
“So, technically, your ass belongs to Harlan.” My mouth curves.
“I bet Brooke organized a convoy of people to go.” Clay’s huff of breath sounds genuinely put out, and his disappointment means more to me than his words.
“I told her not to come opening night.” I bite my lip. “There’re going to be lots of art critics, and it’s possible they’ll slam my work. Gives me a day to bounce back emotionally if I need it,” I say dryly.
