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Dylan sniggered as he watched me cleaning up the spilled gesso, still looking contrite. “I really am sorry, Avery. I was just trying to show you how excited I am to help you out today. I didn’t mean to make more work for you.”
“It’s really okay,” I said, giving him a sincere smile. “Accidents happen. And to be honest, it’s kind of nice to see someone else be the messy one in my studio for once.”
I grabbed some paper towels and handed half to Dylan. We both kneeled down, sopping up the puddles of white goop. As we cleaned, we kept accidentally bumping elbows and knees, maneuvering around each other in the tight space.
“Oops, sorry!” Dylan laughed as our heads nearly knocked together. I just smiled and shook my head. Only Dylan could turn a simple wrapping session into a Three Stooges skit.
As we finally mopped up the last of the spill, I glanced at Dylan’s face, scrunched in concentration. A lock of wavy brown hair had fallen over his eyes. Without thinking, I reached out and gently brushed it back. Dylan looked at me, surprise flickering across his features. Our faces were just inches apart. The playful atmosphere evaporated for a moment, replaced by something much more intimate. My heartbeat quickened.
I cleared my throat and quickly leaned back, breaking the charged moment. “Well, I’d say we got all the gesso up.”
Dylan blinked a few times, seeming to regain his composure. “Yeah, good as new,” he said with an affable grin. Crisis averted. We settled back into our wrapping tasks, though I noticed Dylan was more careful about keeping a comfortable distance between us. Probably for the best. I needed to get my traitorous heart back in line before I did something really stupid, like kissing my fake fiancé.
As we worked, Dylan regaled me with funny stories from his days as a rookie firefighter.
“Man, I made so many mistakes those first few months on the job,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Like this one time, the chief asked me to prepare a big demo for my first safety event for the kids. I was so nervous that I knocked over the fake smoke machine right as they arrived. Ended up looking like the whole auditorium was on fire!”
I burst out laughing at the mental image. “Oh my gosh, what did you do?”
“Just waved my arms and yelled that it was all part of the show!” Dylan said, grinning. “The kids loved it. But let’s say the chief wasn’t thrilled with my impromptu smoke effects.”
We shared a laugh, and Dylan launched into another hilarious mishap story, involving a stray dog and a tangled fire hose. I shook my head in amusement. My affection for him grew with each endearing tale, like tendrils slowly twining together.
Get a grip, I scolded myself again. But my heart refused to unlace itself from Dylan’s. I had a sinking feeling this was one knot that would only grow tighter with time.
***
The last painting safely wrapped, I stepped back, arms folded, a satisfied sigh escaping my lips. The studio brimmed with my completed works, each tagged and ready for tomorrow’s art festival.
“You’re going to knock ‘em dead tomorrow,” he said, scanning the room with an approving nod. “Just promise me it’ll be less fiery than our last adventure.”
I chuckled, glancing at him. “No promises. But I’ll aim for a dull affair—just art enthusiasts and no smoke.”
Dylan leaned against the worktable, crossing his arms to mirror me. His smile was easy, but behind it, I sensed the same thread of concern that had woven through my thoughts since the fire. We were both playing it cool, pretending yesterday’s fear hadn’t left a mark.
“Hey,” he said softly, reaching out to nudge my shoulder. “You’ve got this.”
I met his gaze, green eyes steady and reassuring. “Thanks to you. You’ve been...” Words caught in my throat—’amazing’, ‘incredible’, ‘more than I could have asked for’—none seemed enough.
He shrugged modestly. “Just living up to my fake fiancé duties.”
But it was more than that, and we both knew it.
“Your support means everything,” I confessed instead, hoping he understood everything I left unsaid.
He hesitated at the door, returning with a look that said more than any goodbye could. “No worries. See you in the morning, Aves.”
“See you,” I echoed.
The door clicked shut behind him, and silence fell over the studio—a stark contrast to the buzz of our shared efforts moments before. Alone now with my thoughts and canvases, I allowed myself to feel the full weight of tomorrow’s importance—not just for my career, but for whatever was blooming between Dylan and me.
His belief in me was like a life raft in an ocean of doubt. Tomorrow wasn’t just about proving myself to Pebble Point or defying my parents’ expectations; it was about showing Dylan that his faith wasn’t misplaced—this whole charade hadn’t been for nothing.
I brushed a stray lock of hair from my face and exhaled slowly. The room was still heavy with Dylan’s lingering scent—a mix of smoke and sandalwood cologne—and something else, too: anticipation.
Tomorrow would be revealing in more ways than one. And as much as I longed for success at the festival, part of me yearned even more for what came after—the chance to explore what was real in our make-believe engagement.
The sun dipped below the horizon as I turned off the lights in my studio one by one. In the quiet dusk, Dylan’s parting words echoed back to me: “See you in the morning.” They held promise—a hope that whatever happened at the festival, there would be an after for us.
