A rogue tear slipped down my cheek.
“Would you kiss already?” someone shouted. Laughter spread through the crowd.
I shrugged nonchalantly. “Well, now we have to, since they asked so nicely,” I said.
“Yeah, they paid good money for those tickets. Don’t wanna disappoint them.”
I punched him gently. He caught my hand and pulled me into him. Then, lifting me off the floor, our mouths, like two galaxies drawn to one another, finally collided.
Chapter Forty-Four
One Truth, no Lies
Okay fine, love doesn’t suck
“Higher.”
“Is that better?”
I squirmed. “A little to the left.”
John chuckled. “Like that?”
I groaned. “No, the other left.”
John paused, peering at me from beneath his bushy brows. “You mean right?”
I threw my hands up in exasperation. “I don’t care what you call it, but it isn’t going there.”
John marked the spot on the wall, then hung my framed award above the mantel. It fit perfectly beside his many awards, which I’d made him hang as well.
“You gotta be proud of your achievements!” John smiled at me.
“Look at us,” I said, grinning.
He stepped to my side. “Look at you.” He slapped my butt in a playful way that made me squeal and want to rip his clothes off at the same time.
I slipped my hand into his back pocket, leaning my head against his chest. Who would have thought I’d ever get an Eisner Award for my first-ever graphic novel? Not me.
The title:Caruso 2.0-The Samurai Crew. The cover—A ragtag of misfits with an adorable animal companion, a starburst of explosions on the horizon. In retro '60s font, it read:Written by May Short and Jeremy Parson; beneath their names:Illustrated by Nora Skye.
Haller & Mark had caught wind of my art after the gallery at the shop went online. Apparently, the publisher had sent me several proposals to collaborate. I just hadn’t received them. For...reasons. After Lew’s death and much consideration, the panel decided the legacy would live on in a different medium.
Queequeg lay on his back in front of the fireplace, snoring, his little legs twitching occasionally. Probably dreaming of hunting squirrels.
“Hungry?” John mumbled into my hair. I lifted my head to meet his lips, brushing my mouth softly over his, savoring the slight scratch of his stubble.
“Always.”
He made a warm, throaty sound that melted me from the inside out, then slipped his hand under my butt, lifting me to kiss him fully. I chuckled against his breath, slinging my legs around his hips, letting myself sink into the warmth of the kiss. Instant hunger replaced the humor.
John sat me on the kitchen island we’d bought last week: our first IKEA trip, and no one got dumped. We should really get an award for that. Slowly, we replaced all things Lew Elliot, dusted off years of old furniture from the attic, and filled this house with our things—though I kept the leather loveseat. And the hot tub.Which has gotten plenty of use. A picture of John and his mom now hung next to me and my dad over the mantel.
My paycheck had been enough to buy a fancy drawing table that now sat beside the sofa, overlooking the snow-covered pines and the small lake outside our cottage.
Turns out Mr. Bestselling Author John Kater loved antique shopping, so we spent weekends driving to farmers' markets and vintage stores, finding souvenirs for our little writing retreat. In the evenings, we watched marathons of horror and Meg Ryan movies while John cooked his way through Mom’s recipes.
Vivian had been over with her now fiancée for our official moving in party. I realised not even ten minutes into the night that beneath that icy exterior lay someone soft and sensitive. Someone fiercely loyal. We had bonded quickly over our shared love for art and laughed over teenage photos of John she had on her phone.
