Page 118 of The Route to You

“I’m sure you’ll be perfect.” He grabbed two smocks off the hanger. “Besides, that’s what the milkshake is for. I have it on good authority they make everything better.” And because he couldn’t help himself, he added, “That and my T-shirts.”

Her face flushed further—if that was possible. “Well, thank you. For the milkshake, the T-shirt, and for coming out to support me.” She gestured to the room. “Don’t think there will be much of a turnout.”

“That’s probably better. Think about it—would you want to give your first class to thirty people or five?”

“That’s true,” she said, taking another sip of milkshake. “God, this really is good. But seriously, you didn’t have to come. I feel bad. Like I guilted you without knowing it.”

He gave her a look. “No guilt. This is called showing up for a friend.” He lifted the smocks. “Good luck.”

As he made his way back to Tara, he felt her watching him. Maybe he should have told her he was thinking of coming first, but Granny had always taught him that thoughtful actions were best served without decoration.

But it was strange. Every time he offered her some simple gesture, it seemed so foreign to her. He couldn’t help thinking about her dickwad ex, wondering if he’d ever been there for her in the ways she really needed.

More than anything, he got the impression Sloan had been far lonelier the last few years than he’d realized when they’d first crossed paths again.

She was shy, sure, but there was something more to it. And that shyness all seemed to go out the window the moment she started instructing the small class anyway. With a paint brush in her hand as she started on the background of a lighthouse painting, Sloan . . . glowed.

As though she could feel his eyes on her, she looked up at him just then. She caught his gaze for half a second, just enough for something from the night before to flicker to life inside him, then she looked away, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

A warning signal thrummed through his heart. Nothing about her—not her, the confusing past, or the surreal present—was uncomplicated. Yet,. when he thought back to how easily he’d fallen in love with her when they were young, he didn’t feel that same sense of loss that had once existed. Like her return had healed some of that scar.

But for both their sakes, he had to be careful. She wanted to rebuild her life, and she deserved that chance.

The more he thought about it, the more he imagined how stifled she must have been, how Evan must have treated her—extinguishing the fiery parts of her that made her come alive—the angrier Kyle got.

“Uncle Kyle?” Tara said, mid-brushstroke.

He looked down at her, blinking. “Yeah, monkey?”

She smiled happily. “Do you like my pi-ture?”

He turned to look at her painting. Tara had decided to skip the painting Sloan was demonstrating and instead had painted two neckless figures on a field of green—one tall with light hair and one small one with brown hair. “Is that us?” he asked with a smile.

She nodded eagerly.

“It’s perfect,” he said, kissing her cheek.

Sloan slid in just then with a fresh canvas. “Here you go,” she said with a smile. “In case you want to paint something else.”

Tara ducked her chin again, shoulders lifting, not meeting Sloan’s eyes.

As Kyle helped Tara swap the canvas, his jaw worked. Tara normally talked to everyone, so what was her sudden shyness coming from? It had to be new-person nerves.

Or was it something else?

“Everything okay?” Kyle asked in a low voice.

Tara nodded wordlessly.

Then, lower still, he asked, “You scared of the lady?”

Tara shook her head.

Huh. This wasn’t like her.

“Then . . . what?”

She didn’t answer and went back to painting, but after a few moments, she quietly said, “Miss Sloan is pwetty, like a pwincess.”