Page 24

I vaguely remembered the realtor saying that she was going to post something on her socials about the sale, but it hadn’t occurred to me that she’d mention me in the post. Or that anyone would be able to find me from it.

“She sounds impressive.”

“Yeah,” Art agreed. “And she might listen to a few too many true crime podcasts.”

A laugh bubbled up, triggered by how mortified he seemed by the whole situation. Biting my lip wasn’t enough to keep another slightly hysterical chuckle from bubbling up, so I slumped back against my backrest and covered my mouth with my hand. It was hard not to appreciate that level of deviousness.

How were we sitting in my new kitchen, chatting like old pals, when my heart still did a weird little flutter dance whenever our eyes crossed paths, and my core got uncomfortably warm whenever I thought of his hands cupping my face or his lips brushing against mine?

Blushing even harder, I glanced away and tried to think of anything other than what it might feel like to have his hands slide down my neck and shoulders to my lower back. I couldn’t let myself go there after being the one who’d broken things off. Lusting after him seemed beyond unfair. Cruel even.

You can say that again, my grandmother said. I could almost picture her, perched on the kitchen windowsill in her pink housecoat and kitten-heeled pom-pom slippers, taking a dainty sip of her afternoon cordial as she shot me a pointed look.

Our grandmother had been eccentric and painfully direct, known for pointedly worded advice that often stung when it landed squarely.

I’d avoided thinking about Art by packing my days full, but I couldn’t do that sitting two feet away from him. The shock of seeing him in the shop the first time had overwhelmed my senses, but in the quiet kitchen, every feeling I’d squashed into a tiny box and shoved into the dark recesses of my heart burst free.

We had spent six perfect hours together. And somehow my brain had fuzzed out his features. Being face-to-face with him was like seeing an out-of-focus photo come to life. He was better-looking than I remembered. His eyes were kinder than I recalled. But it was his gentle smile that sent butterflies rioting in my gut when I glanced back over at him and met his questioning gaze.

“I owe you an apology,” I blurted, momentarily throwing off his composure with the unexpected tangent. “I’m sorry.” Taking a deep breath, I forged ahead. “It was wrong of me to tell you so little about why I was breaking things off. It was cowardly of me to block your number and email after I did. I had to, though. I was afraid I would…” I let my voice trail away. Knowing what scared me would have required stopping long enough to explore how I was feeling, and I’d studiously avoided doing just that.

“You were afraid that if I contacted you, you would back down?” he suggested.

His words rang true enough to make me tip my head in acknowledgement. “Something like that.”

“I think I might owe you an apology, too,” he said, dropping his head to look at his clasped hands on the table.

“For?” I frowned.

“Following you out of the coffee shop after leaving yours the way I did. I’m a mess of mixed messages these days. I just…” He glanced away, then back at me. “I just didn’t want you getting the wrong idea. Not that it really matters, I guess. ” The anguish in his voice wrapped itself around my heart and squeezed. It took all my willpower not to jump up to wrap my arms around him. I had caused this pain; I didn’t get to erase it. “I thought things were off to such a great start,” he murmured.

“It was going great!” I said. “That was the problem.”

He frowned. “I don’t understand. Can you explain?” he asked, sounding curious rather than angry.

I jerked back in surprise. Jim had never asked for explanations. Not when it was easier to jump to conclusions. He’d preferred to take offense instead of asking for clarification.

I took a moment before responding. The least I owed Art was honesty.

“I really like you, Art. I like hanging out with you and talking to you. We laugh together. You get my jokes. You’re thoughtful and considerate. Time slips away when we’re talking. It’s all just so…easy.”

“Definitely still confused. What am I missing?” Art asked, cocking his head and frowning.

“Isn’t it obvious?” I cried, jumping to my feet. “Relationships aren’t easy! Everyone knows that. They take work! Compromise! This can’t be real!” I threw my hands in the air. “Every day, I kept expecting something to go wrong or feel off. And every day that it didn’t, the apprehension grew,” I said, dropping back into my seat, my mouth and throat so dry that the last word came out as a croak. I took a tentative sip of my coffee and, finding that it wasn’t a thousand degrees, drained half the cup in one gulp.

Art nodded slowly. “I get it. I’ve never experienced anything that felt so…”—he paused and chuckled under his breath—“well, easy, to use your word. Though maybe easeful is a better word, because what I feel for you is complex and intense and deep and not easy at all, but being around you feels natural, like I’ve known you all my life.”

I caught myself nodding back.

“Even now. I should be upset and feel rejected, or at least tense and on edge, but I just feel calm around you. None of my previous relationships have been easy,” Art continued. “Then again, none of them have ever worked out before. So what do I know?”

Making myself meet his eyes, I said what really mattered. “I’m sorry I hurt you. That was never my intent.”

He flashed me a sad smile. “I know that, now. Thank you for saying it, though.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes, the weight of what we’d said resting heavily between us.

“Where do we go from here?” I asked when the silence teetered on the edge of uncomfortable. “Just go our separate ways? Try to avoid each other as best as possible?”