“Good.” He smooths his thumb over my cheekbone. His eyes flick behind me, to my house. “So, can I come in?” His voice is pure, molten promise. But instead of melting, I tense.
Am I ready for that? I hold my breath, heartbeat skittering as I search his face.
My hesitation must be answer enough, because Devin clears his throat and drops his hand.
I touch his arm. “I want to. Honestly. It’s just, given all that’s happened to me, and how strange this situation is, I think I’d prefer to take it slow. I like you. I really do. I’m just not sure I’m ready for… that.”
Devin’s shoulders relax as he sweeps his thumb over my jaw. “Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Thanks for understanding.” With a shaky smile, I gather up my bag from between my feet and crack open the door. “I’ll text you later.”
I’m halfway out of the car when he snatches my fingers. Bringing my knuckles to his lips, he presses a kiss against the tender skin. His dark eyes flash as his tongue darts out, setting my nerve endings ablaze. “Looking forward to it,” he rumbles.
I somehow manage to exit the car without falling over—despite my quavering legs—and shut the door.
He waits until I wave from the front porch before driving away. Leaning against the screen door, I blow out a noisy breath, hand pressed against my chest. Devin is a perfect male specimen and the embodiment of every woman’s fantasy: charming, kind, ambitious, and hotter than a clam bake on the Fourth of July. So why am I still hesitating?
There’s the obvious: three weeks isn’t a long time to date someone. I should get to know him better before diving whole hog into a relationship with someone I might still have very unrealistic expectations about. But it’s not as if he’s a stranger anymore. We’ve been on four, no five, dates now, and if it were any of the other guys I’ve dated, I would have invited him in for some grown-up sexy fun times by this point.
Unbidden, Perry’s face floats into my mind—his shy smile, wavy brown hair, and the unbridled passion in his eyes when he talks about delivering joy to others. After the debacle at Marcus’s bar and his drunken shenanigans at the pinball parlor, the last person I expected to find a friend in was Perry. But after tonight, I can call him a friend, and that’s a good thing. I should get along with the brother of the man I’m seeing. It certainly makes things less complicated now that he’s not overtly suspicious of me.
So why am I thinking about Perry… now? Minutes after kissing Devin?
With a huff, I open the screen door and twist the knob. The porch light is off and the door is locked. Either Brie’s not home yet or she’s turned in early. After a minute of fruitless searching in my bag for my keys, I pull out my phone and tap the flashlight app. A beam of concentrated light skitters across the porch, streaking across a package tucked next to the door. Frowning, I pick it up. It’s not a delivery; it doesn’t have an address or name on it, and it’s surprisingly heavy. I flip it over, and find a small envelope taped to the back with one word on it: Cass.
Who in the world left this here? Did Mom drop something off for me? Judging by its rectangular shape and hard angles, I’m guessing it’s a wooden box of some sort. I quickly find my keys, let myself in, and make a beeline for my bedroom. Down the hall, warm, yellow light seeps out from beneath Brie’s closed door; she’s in for the night.
Flipping on the ceiling light with my elbow, I deposit my bag on the floor of my bedroom before settling on the bed with my mystery package. Curiosity pounds through me with every beat of my heart as I tug off the envelope and slide out the card inside. On it, a handwritten message is scrawled in blue ink: In case “someday” comes sooner than later. —Perry
My jaw goes slack and I reread the note two more times before setting the card gingerly on the mattress beside me. My breathing accelerates as I rip open the package, peeling back the brown paper in strips. I was right; it’s a wooden box—three times the size of a shoebox with a set of tarnished brass latches on one side. Flicking the latches, I open the lid.
And gasp. It’s an easel. A portable one.
I tip it onto its side and something rattles inside the easel’s boxy interior. I arrange the stand and extend the legs, adjusting several bolts to lock everything in place, and set the easel upright on the floor. A small groove in the center catches my eye, and I lift a thin panel to reveal a shallow drawer filled with twenty or so small tubes of acrylic paint. I remove them one by one and line them up on my desk next to the pitcher holding Devin’s lilies, which are now dry and shriveled. At the bottom of the drawer, I discover several paintbrushes of various sizes, an oval mixing palette, and three blank, eight-by-ten flat-board canvases. Although the easel is old judging by the patchy stain of the box, the paints and brushes look barely used.