Page 60 of Shadow Secrets
“Wow.” She leaned closer to his ribs, adjusting the angle. Her hair smelled like green-apple shampoo. Her shampoo, not Vivi’s. He liked it. “So you’re staying.”
“I am. I’m also remodeling the upstairs.”
“Yeah? For what? An office?”
“I’m combining the two spare bedrooms up there. Knocking out the wall. The south-facing windows get full light from about ten a.m. to four p.m., and the ceiling’s high enough to mount a drafting surface and still have wall space for pinned work. The tiny bathroom can hold a wet station for ink or paint mixing. And the old chimney runs up through the middle of the space, so if we frame around it, you’d have a?—”
The needle stopped. She pulled it back.
Her mouth parted. “Sebastian.”
“Yeah?”
“Are you making me an art room?”
“It would be silly to make me one. I’m not the artist.”
Her brow creased slightly. “Are you asking me to…move in with you?”
She kind of already was, only maintaining her apartment to assert her independence. “Will a full studio make you say yes?”
The corners of her mouth tipped up. She set the needle on the tray and wiped her gloved hands on a paper towel. Studied him. “Only if I can also redecorate the living room,” she said.
“Done.”
“And the kitchen.”
“Pushy, but okay.”
“And the bathrooms are so sterile I want to cry. No offense. Really, Sebastian, you need more color in your life. The beige in the guest bath is a war crime.”
He acted offended. Wasn’t. “Done, done, and done.” He watched her face. Watched the brightness climbing behind her eyes, the wicked tilt to her mouth that came out when she knew she’d won.
He’d give her the whole farmhouse. He’d give her the land. He’d give her anything she wanted, whenever she wanted it, for the rest of a life he was still learning how to let himself believe in.
The realization didn’t scare him. Two weeks ago, it would have. Now it sat in his chest like a fact. I’d give her anything. Data he’d stopped running analysis on.
“Just as long as you don’t leave your clothes on the bedroom floor,” he said, trying to save a shred of his dignity.
Her eyebrow went up. “That’s it? That’s the only concession?”
“Will you make me pancakes at least once a week?”
“Since it’s about the only thing I make that’s any good, that can be arranged.” She picked the needle back up. “But the rest of the cooking is on you.”
“I like to cook.”
“Your mushroom raviolis are a religious experience.”
“I’ll teach you.”
“Absolutely not. I’ve made my peace with my culinary limits. You cook, I eat, and I occasionally contribute breakfast. That’s the deal.”
He rubbed his chin as if considering it. “I can live with it.”
She bent back to his side. The needle resumed its hum. He watched the ceiling for a while—the textured panels, the old fluorescent fixture Dom had been meaning to replace. All the time, he was grinning like a crazy man. She was moving in. “Mom called,” he said.
“Yeah?” Sutton didn’t look up. “When?”
