A teasing grin begins to tug at his lips. “Color, huh?”
I swallow. “Yeah,color.”
“Thankfully, I have lots ofcolor,”he says before he walks out from behind the counter toward the wall of paint samples.
I follow him, mortified.
“Blues? Greens? Pinks?” he asks.
I stop when I get to the wall mosaicked with every shade under the sun. “Um . . . some of each?”
“What room are you painting?”
“All of them,” I say.
“Wow. That’s a big project.”
“I’m ready for a big change.” As I say the words, I feel the same tingling sensation I had when I was speeding on the back road.
“Well, what colors do you like?” he asks.
“I—”
What is my favorite color?Sophie’s is turquoise. Emma’s spring green. My mom’s sunshine yellow.
“The color when the sun dips low, kissing the horizon with its warmth,” I say, but they aren’t my words. They’re Milo’s.
I once threw a decent tantrum about not having a favorite color. He let me rattle on for a while before he finally interrupted. He knew my favorite color even when I didn’t know how to name it.
Grant hands me a paint sample. It’stheorange. I smile.
“I love this,” I say, looking up at Grant.
“What else?” he asks with a grin.
We pick out a moody green, a soft blue, a rosy pink, and a purple that reminds me of the lilacs in my parents’ backyard. I watch as Grant mixes the paint, his movements sure and steady. This hardware store is like my accounting office—familiar and family.
“Do you like it here, Grant?” I ask as he swipes the soft blue on the lid to confirm the color.
“Dusty Hollow?”
“Well, yes, but I mean . . .the hardware store.”
He leans across the counter, so close I can smell sawdust and cologne. “I’ve always known this place would be mine.”
“But is it what you want?”
He tilts his head and then stands, pushing his hand through his dark hair. “Sometimes life chooses you. I think this place chose me before I knew I wanted it.”
But what if you don’t want what was chosen for you—what if it happened while you were busy doing the right thing?
Grant starts to put all the paint cans up on the counter, and this is when I remember that my car is still in my driveway. “Oh.”
“Oh, what?”
“I walked, and I don’t think I can carry all these. Let me go back home and get my car,” I say as I start toward the door. Then I stop. “Actually, Grant?—”
I take a deep breath.
