“I do, but I think they turned out beautifully. They’re so provocative and compelling and…” My breath rushes out. “Seriously, amazing work. They almost make me want to pick up a brush again.”
“You should. You’re talented.”
“Nah. Maybe, once, a long time ago,” I say, waving my hand dismissively in the air. “But I haven’t painted since high school. I messed around with clay and Paper Mache at this commune I lived in for a while in my early twenties, but nothing after that.”
“Why not?”
I lift a shoulder. “I was busy with work and the baby. And then I wasn’t making a lot of money, and art supplies are expensive.”
“I hear you. That’s part of the reason I quit for years. My sister and I were helping my parents build a new house. All my spare money went there for a long time.”
Shame heats my cheeks. Here I am, still mooching off my parents, while Nash has already helped give his a better life. But I knew when I decided to train as a pastry chef that I probably wasn’t going to make a ton of money right away—or maybe ever. That hadn’t mattered to me at the time.
Honestly, it doesn’t really matter to me now. I don’t need to make a ton of money, just enough to support myself and my daughter.
Too bad that’s so much harder to do than I expected.
Brushing my hair from my forehead I turn to stare into the lug nut eyes of the young doe in one of the smaller paintings. “So yeah, I was busy and…I don’t know. It’s like you said, I could never get the canvas to look the way it did in my head. It got frustrating after a while, so I gave up.”
“You should try again. You might find it easier to stick with it now.” Nash wanders over to stand behind me, so close I can feel his warmth on my back and smell his fresh-from-the-shower scent rising around me. “We give up on things too easily when we’re kids.”
I chew my bottom lip, unable to keep from thinking about other things the two of us gave up on when we were kids, or about that night in the woods when Nash made me feel so special, so beautiful.
Maybe he’s right.
Maybe some things do deserve another shot.
Things like art and…
Chapter Thirteen
Aria
I close my eyes and will myself to get a grip.
Nash isn’t sending out signals. He’s being nice, and that’s what I should do—be nice, civil, not flirty or hopeful in stupid ways. Dwelling on things that happened in another life is never a good idea.
Though I can’t help but wonder…
“So, there’s only one bedroom?” I ask, not turning to look at him, fearing my crazy thoughts about second chances might be showing on my face.
He clears his throat. “I figured I could take the couch,” he says, confirming that he’s committed to a kind, respectful, friendly relationship.
Which is good. Boundaries are good. Friendship is good. Anything else is drama both Felicity and I can do without.
“That’s sweet of you.” I face him with a smile. “But I’ll take the couch. I don’t mind. This is your place, and I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable in your own bed.”
“No, you take the bed.” He backs a step away. “I get up at the butt crack of dawn to lift most mornings, anyway, so you’ll get more use out of it. And that way you’ll be closer to Felicity if she wakes up in the night.”
I sigh. “Oh, she’ll wake up. No question of if, only when. Which reminds me, I should get a couple of bottles ready.” I cross to the bag of groceries on the counter, locating the formula and clean bottles I brought from my parents’ house.
“She’s still not sleeping through the night?” Nash asks, his eyebrows lifting as he watches me from across the counter.
“No, she’s still not sleeping through the night,” I say, rolling my eyes. “And I’ve tried everything they say to try. I’ve cut her naps shorter during the day and fed her more solid foods. I’ve tried letting her cry for ten minutes before I go in to feed her and then rocking her for fifteen minutes before she gets the bottle, but nothing works. She just cries and cries until she gets the milk and then goes right back to sleep.”
He shakes his head, his lips curving into a smile. “You haven’t tried the Mee-maw method.”
“The Mee-maw method?” I prop my hand on my hip. “Don’t tell me you saddled your mother with that one. That’s the worst grandma name there is.”
He laughs. “Yeah, it’s pretty bad, but my sisters’ kids started calling her that when they were little and it stuck. Too late to change it now.”
“Poor thing,” I say with a cluck of my tongue.