Page 17 of The Image of You

“These are new. They weren’t here when I left.”

I patted the leather. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to sit in my lap all night, and I saw them while I was out.”

After I was done working, I had ventured out into the neighborhood to pick up some supplies.

When I’d bought the building, the area around it was run-down, with mostly empty storefronts and buildings, but beginning a slow transformation. Four years later, it was rejuvenated, with lots of shops, businesses, and eclectic stores. The main floor of my building was completely rented out, adding a good profit to my portfolio.

I had noticed these stools in the window of a trendy furniture store while I was out and had them delivered right away. The thickly padded, chocolate-brown leather tops were far more comfortable than my old wooden stool.

“You were okay to go out? How’s your head?” she asked anxiously.

“Nothing I can’t handle. I’m fine. The drugs have helped, and my head feels better. I think your humming fixed it all.”

She shook her head. “Stop it.”

“I mean it. You have a lovely voice.”

She ignored my words. “You shouldn’t overdo it for a few days,” she reminded me. “Give yourself time to heal.”

“I’m sure you’ll monitor me closely.”

Her gaze skittered away, and the blush I liked stained her skin. I enjoyed seeing it.

I got up and began to pull out some of the food. “Hungry?”

“I don’t want to bother—”

I shook my head, interrupting her. “You aren’t a bother, Ally. I’m not a great cook, but I picked up a few things, instead of ordering in.”

“Okay. That would be lovely.”

“Good.” I set down a couple of plates of snacks I had bought—cheeses and dips, some bread, and other munchies. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I grabbed a variety.”

“This is great. Thank you.”

As we ate, I studied her. The only word that came to my head was weary. She looked weary. “Did you run around all day with your mother?”

“Yes.”

I waited for her to say more, and when she didn’t, I prompted her.

“How was your mother?”

“Annoyed.”

I heard the frustration in her voice. There was an underlying edge as well. Hurt, perhaps? I was right thinking her mother was the source.

“I don’t understand.”

She paused, her wineglass inches from her lips. The lips I’d wanted to kiss since she walked back in my door. “There are…expectations. When I don’t live up to them, my mother isn’t happy. Not only was I late, apparently I was distracted and not as involved as I should have been…” Her voice trailed off, and she shrugged.

“You overslept because you were here with me, right? I threw off your schedule?”

She met my eyes. “Yes. But that part I enjoyed. Don’t even think to apologize.”

I grinned at her tone. I wanted to tease her and ask what had been distracting her all afternoon, but I resisted.

“You just got off working nights. She must understand that.”