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I rolled my eyes and shook my head, hoping he really would reach out to his sister.
I meant what I said. Because as much as I hated to think about it, as of right now, our plan included Nell and I breaking up. And I didn’t want whatever tentative peace the Alcott family was beginning to form to be dependent on me.
I clicked on my messaging app and pulled up my text thread with Nell.
With a pit in my stomach, I looked at the last messages we had exchanged. She had thanked me for allowing Jeffers to take her home, and I had told her it wasn’t a problem. I had sent a follow-up text telling her that I’d had a good time at the gala, but she hadn’t responded yet.
That had been yesterday morning.
I ran a hand through my hair, blowing out a frustrated breath. For the past two days, I’d done little else but think about her.
And it was about time that I got good and honest with myself. In a very short time, this was becoming more than just a fake engagement to me.
I didn’t know exactly what that meant yet, or what I even wanted it to mean.
All I knew was that I wanted to spend more time with Nell. And not time we were forced to spend together just to keep up the rouse.
Inspiration hit me, sending a jolt of excitement coursing through me. My fingers flew across the screen of my phone as I typed up a quick message and hit send.
Her response buzzed through a few seconds later, and I grinned.
Me:I know things ended weird the other night. Let me make it up to you. Plans next Wednesday?
Nell: There’s nothing to make up for. But if you want to plan something, I won’t argue. See you in a week.
It looked like I had some planning to do.
CHAPTERNINETEEN
NELL
I swipedthe brush through the clump of paint on the wooden palette in my hands, blending and mixing colors until I achieved the perfect shade and then brought it to the canvas.
I hummed to myself as I painted, losing myself in the act of creating.
I tried not to think of Blake’s text from earlier that morning, tried not to daydream about what he was planning two days from now.
But if an errant fantasy slipped through every few minutes as I hummed to myself, who was I to judge?
“Can you come get your phone, please?” Hugo’s voice rang out from behind me, low and frustrated.
I turned to him with my brow creased in confusion. “What?”
“Your phone.” He arched a perfectly manicured eyebrow at me. “It’s been going off and off and off under the counter for what feels like forever. Why the hell you don’t have your ringer on silent is beyond me. But for the love of God, turn it off.”
He turned dramatically and stomped back toward the front of the gallery, the shawl he had draped over his slender shoulders swishing behind him for emphasis.
“I thought I had turned my ringer off,” I mumbled as I pushed myself off my stool.
Glancing at my watch, I realized my lunch break was almost over anyways, and decided to pack up my supplies for the day.
I took off my apron and cleared off my palette, leaving my canvas where it was so that the current layer of paint could dry before I strode out onto the gallery floor.
Two customers milled about, walking from painting to painting and speaking in hushed tones as they debated on which ones to buy.
As if on cue, the sound of my ringtone began blaring, Bruce Springsteen’s I’m On Fire filling the space, making my cheeks burn with embarrassment as I darted behind the counter.
I pulled the phone from my purse, meaning to immediately silence it, but when I saw who was calling, a bolt of worry flashed through me.
