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A trail of tiny colorful paw prints led toward the kitchen.

“Willow?” Ali called, voice wavering with emotion.

Charlotte reacted to the distress building in Ali’s voice, unfolding her long legs from the couch studying the disarray and abstract splatters and smears of paint surrounding Ali’s bare feet.

“I’ll get the broom.”

It was well past midnight when they finished cleaning.

Willow hid in utter disgrace beneath the bed after her forced bath to wash away the evidence of her transgression.

Charlotte—fresh from the shower—rummaged through Ali’s dresser, in search of an oversized t-shirt. Ali entered, a slight hitch in her step and weariness resting heavy on her shoulders. Far too many late nights and early mornings all while working on her commissions and never missing a shift at the B&B. In short, she ran herself ragged.

“Did you step on glass?”

“I think so.”

“Let’s get you fixed up,” Charlotte led her to sit on the edge of the tub.

A quiet sniff sounded, drawing Charlotte’s gaze away from where she extracted the glass embedded in her heel.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

Ali deflated, chin wobbling as she covered her eyes with her hand. The exhaustion and defeat were so clear in her voice. “That was the last of my phthalo blue.”

Charlotte set Ali’s foot down and rose up on her knees, pulling Ali into her arms. “We’ll get you some more tomorrow, I promise.”

“Will you stay?”

Spoken so softly, she nearly missed it. Charlotte thanked her stars she heard it. Warmth swelled in her chest because Ali seemed to want her in every way.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Charlotte assured, hand cupping the back of her head.

Ali more easily received comfort and acts of service from her. A slow process Charlotte tried to handle with care, realizing early on Ali often expected conditions to accompany Charlotte’s affections. But as she clung to Charlotte and let herself be vulnerable without apology, Charlotte understood trust was beginning to flourish with safety growing parallel beside it. And that more than anything filled her with a quiet joy.

17

ALI

Grating sounds from the coffee grinder wore Ali’s already fraying nerves. Ever the trooper, Wren held down the counter, steaming milk and mixing drinks. All while, Ali slumped in one of the leather armchairs, fielding calls and texts from Victoria.

Beyond the panes of glass lined with hand-painted white trim, a gust of wind sent leaves tumbling across the sidewalk and out into the street. The sky was a heavy gray, growing darker by the minute. It hadn’t rained in weeks, but maybe if it finally did, it might wash away her terrible mood.

Thirty-six hours until the bridal shower, and Victoria—who had fallen off the face of the earth after their initial meeting—suddenly decided she wanted input. Never mind the details were finalized, deposits paid, and the invitations sent a month ago. Nor did it matter that Ali’s group show landed mere hours after the shower.

Fucking Vicki.

Every time her name appeared on her screen, rage blotched across her chest.

“How’s Operation Get Charlotte Davenport, the CEO of Perfect Bone Structure, to Fuck Your Brains Out going?” Wren piped up, a touch of her southern drawl peeking through like a telltale grin.

She didn’t always let it show unless mischief was afoot or she was mad.

Ali rolled her eyes. “It’s not.”

The truth was, she’d barely seen or spoken to Charlotte since the night she modeled for her and Willow decided to interrupt what was about to be the steamiest sex of Ali’s life. Since then, they’d both been buried in work. Ali juggling her pieces for the upcoming show, Victoria’s crises, and the Blend & Brew. Charlotte, consumed by the acquisition at Compose. She always sounded worn thin, her voice rough with fatigue when they managed to exchange a few words.

They hadn’t even talked about what almost happened. Yet, Ali thought about it constantly and heat coiled low in her belly every damn time.