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Chapter Ten
Samantha
“So, I got some big news today.”
Across the booth, Ian slid into the padded bench seat, long legs stretching far enough under the table that I felt his booted feet brush against mine. I stretched my leg out and brushed against his ankle with the toe of my flat, relishing the smile that curled across his lips at the simple contact, even as my whole body still buzzed from the scorching kiss Ian had planted on my lips out in the restaurant parking lot. I had barely slid my car into a parking space before he stalked over to greet me, his lips on mine the second I climbed out and rose to my feet. I felt my cheeks flush at the memory.
“Did you?” he asked as he folded his arms on the table in front of him. His eyes landed on my pink cheeks, and his smile only widened.
I nodded. “After you left this morning, I got a call. You know Puget Sound Arts?”
He sipped his water and nodded. “The gallery over on Westbrook? Yeah, I’ve been in there a couple times. It’s nice.”
My fingertips toyed with the tassel on the menu as I met his eyes, rich and brown and curious. “Well, they called me. They offered me a showing.”
Instantly, Ian’s face lit up, and he pushed the water to the side to reach out and grab my hands in his big, warm ones. “Seriously?” He rose out of his seat slightly, leaning over the table to press a brief, warm kiss to my smiling lips. “That’s incredible, Sam,” he said, settling back into the padded bench. “You should be very proud.”
“I am.” I bit my lip and shrugged. “Nervous, too. It’s kind of short notice because another artist canceled, so I have a lot of prep to do in the next four weeks.” I paused and sucked in a deep breath as I tried to shake off the oily thread of anxiety as it worked its way into my gut. “Like, a lot. I’ll be really busy.” I bit my lip. “But we’ll still spend time together, okay? I won’t be totally missing in action.”
Ian’s thumb stroked across my knuckles, warm and reassuring. “You’re up to it. I know that you are.” With one last caress, he let go and leaned back, cocking his head to give me a long look. “And artist to artist—I get it. Opportunities like this don’t come around all the time, so you have to grab it when it’s available. And you don’t need my permission to make choices about your career, all right? I’m around. We’ll figure it out.” He paused. “But does this mean you won’t be teaching anymore?”
I chuckled. “Oh, there it is. Why, would you miss me at knitting class?”
“Of course I would.” He took a long sip of his water. “I started because I wanted to learn to knit, but I’m came back because of you.” He frowned. “Anita and Fumiko are honestly enough to scare anybody off.”
“If I make enough on commissions, I’ll probably reduce my teaching schedule,” I said. “I would just need the time to work. But I like teaching, you know? I think I’d miss it if I cut it out entirely. That and I’m—” I trailed off.
“You’re what?”
I looked at Ian, into those dark eyes that glowed like a banked fire as I searched the depths of my own fears. My feelings. I can trust him, I thought as I remembered the day before, when told me about his addiction and recovery, his complicated feelings.
If he can be vulnerable for me, then I can be vulnerable for him.
“I’m really scared,” I finally said. “About…about doing a good job. Selling my work and taking the next step. I’m an anxious person, and change rattles me.”
His eyebrows knitted together as something warm and soft flickered in those dark eyes. “Change can be scary,” he said carefully. “Even when it’s good.”
“True.” I sighed and pushed my hair back before I leaned forward onto my elbows. “There’s just…” I struggled to find the words to explain it. “There’s this little voice of doubt that never—never completely goes quiet for me. It’s a voice that tells me I’m not good enough for this opportunity, that I can’t balance dating you with my career, that I just can’t do it all. You know?”
Ian nodded. “Yeah, I do know.” He leaned forward and took my hands again. “I have that voice, too. It’s the one that still tells me I can’t get through stress without a drink. But the thing about that voice is that it’s wrong. You wouldn’t have gotten the call if you weren’t good enough for it. I haven’t seen a lot of your art yet, but from what I saw at your house last night and this morning, you’re good. You’re really good. And as far as me, I’m not going anywhere. Are you?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m not. Not unless you turn out to be an asshole.” I paused, a teasing grin on my lips. “Do you plan to turn out to be an asshole?”
His loud guffaw rang out across the dining room, and I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face and chased away some of that dark nervousness that coiled in my belly. It felt good to be with him. Good enough to make me wonder what the future held for us.
“No,” he said. “I really, really don’t. I’d like to think my asshole days are far behind me, along with the drinking.”
We lingered over dinner, sharing long conversations about art and our lives. I told him about my parents and the tense home I grew up in, and watched his eyes fill with sympathy when I described the relief I felt on the day my parents finally told me that they were divorcing. I talked about the anxiety that had plagued me since childhood, and through it all, he listened without interrupting, with an open mind and no assumptions. And in return, he told me more about his recovery, how every day was a choice to stay sober.
“Holy shit,” I said through a mouthful of tiramisu. I swallowed and wiped my mouth. “Edith is your sponsor?”
Ian laughed and reached out to snag his own forkful of our shared dessert. It was nice—sharing this way, I thought.
“Yeah. I’m not supposed to get into who’s who—anonymous, you know. But I don’t think she’d mind.” He popped the bite of tiramisu in his mouth and groaned with pleasure as he chewed. “Did you know that she called me an idiot baby recently?”
I didn’t even try to mute the laughter that burst out of me and carried through the dim restaurant. “Yeah, that sounds like her. She has no filter.” I reached out for another forkful. “No wonder she was staring so hard at me at crochet class today. Like I was under inspection or something. I hope I passed.”
My eyes followed his tattooed arms as he reached out to take the last bite of tiramisu before shoving it in his mouth and pushing the plate off to the side. After a quick pause to wipe his hands on a napkin, he reached out and took my hands in his.
