Page 105 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

Likely story. “In case you were wondering, the Bower boys epidemic you were so concerned about at the art walk is about to get worse. Seems Lennon’s moving back to Windfall.”

Her cheeks flame the color of her red hair. So bright I’m sure her freckles will catch fire. “Whatever. He’s not my concern. I don’t care where he lives.”

Her huffy glare as she storms off says otherwise.

“Des?” Sadie’s voice sends my gut on another deep dive. I swivel, and she’s there, standing beside Max, her brow pinched. “I thought you were at your apartment in Ruby Grove.”

Instead of answering, I squeeze Max’s shoulder. “Thanks for bringing her here, bud.”

He grins. “She didn’t suspect a thing.”

“Because you’re a superspy.”

A superspy who seems less worried about me and his mom. No, I haven’t gone and undermined Sadie by explaining the source of our ongoing tension to Max without her. I’m not that big of a moron. I told him I have a surprise for Sadie and asked him to be my wingman. He, of course, didn’t disappoint, begging her to take him to visit Aunt Delilah and Uncle E at Sugar and Sips.

Her calculating eyes ping-pong between us. “What are you guys up to?”

Hopefully making her the happiest she’s ever been.

On cue, Delilah and E slip out of the shop, doing a pitiful job of hiding their conspiratorial smiles and not-so-subtle thumbs-ups.

“The place is yours,” Delilah tells me, practically vibrating with excitement. “And you’re mine.” She points to Max, mock scowling. “I have two dogs who need to lick someone.”

He giggles and skips ahead with them, disappearing down the alley toward their apartment entrance.

Sadie raises her eyebrows, no longer wondering if something’s up. My accomplices suck at discretion. “What have you done?”

I swallow hard and hold out my bent arm, attempting old-school chivalry. “We have an art exhibit to attend.”

The tiny lift of her lips is a good sign. “Since when is there an art exhibit in Delilah’s shop?”

“Since one minute ago? And we’re late.”

“Des.” She doesn’t say more, just looks kind of overwhelmed, fiddling with her purse strap. Then she ducks her head shyly and puts her hand through the crook of my arm. “Guess we shouldn’t be late.”

I’m hoping it’s better late than never.

I hold the door open for her and exhale in relief. The pretty pastel décor is the perfect backdrop for my groveling. Delilah put instrumental jazz music on her stereo, something romantic and light, quiet enough not to overshadow our conversation. The lights are dimmed, and E brought down the bright studio lamp he uses when sketching. It’s aimed at the wall beside the pastry display, illuminating a row of hastily installed framed artworks, which are actually my horrible crafting relics.

I lock the door behind us and place my hand on the small of Sadie’s back, leading her to the first framed piece. We stand in front of it the way we used to ponder art in galleries, our heads tilted slightly, expressions intent.

“You did this.” Something like wonder infuses her quiet words. “These are the crafts you’ve been doing this year.”

“They are.” The first one’s my mutant origami triceratops. It’s stuck in a simple black frame, reminding me of how I was stuck in my boxed-in world back then, barely making strides to pick myself up, while Mirielle badgered me in her good-natured way. Hard to believe that was nearly four months ago. Feels more like four years. “I call this one Buried under History.”

The café still smells sweet, remnants of baked sugar and roasting coffee beans in the air. The backs of our hands brush, and I link my fingers with hers lightly, testing her boundaries, asking with my tentative touch if this is okay.

She winds our fingers more firmly together. “What do you think the artist was feeling when he created it?”

I smile at the question. She’s catching on to what I’m doing here. Presenting myself to her, letting her dig through my head.

“Well.” I rub my thumb over her knuckles. “This piece was done after he learned he no longer needed to be in witness protection but before he knew he had a son.”

“So . . .” Her lips twitch, but I’m not sure why. “Before he puked in a bar bathroom when he learned he was a dad.”

Goddamn E. The guy has no sense of self-preservation. “Yes. Before that. Swear to God, my brother’s gonna end up breathing through a straw.”

She laughs. “E loves you. I think you’re his favorite brother. But back to this accomplished artist.” She nudges me with her elbow. “What was he feeling while making this piece?”