Drawn To You (13 page)

T
he first thing
I’m aware of as I float back into consciousness is that there’s something heavy draped over my midsection. For a second, I’m confused. Then Ezra shifts beside me, pulling me in closer, and I remember.

My eyes drift open to see him half buried in my pillow. His hair falls in strips across his face and it moves the tiniest bit with every breath he takes. The gray-green light of very early morning covers him like a veil and I want so badly to draw him, to cement this memory forever, but I don’t want to move.

For once in my life, I want to be still and enjoy this moment, so I do. I paint him in my mind’s eye.

Too soon, his eye cracks open and he smiles.

“Morning,” he breathes.

“Good morning,” I say.

I’m afraid for a moment that the post-coital awkwardness is going to hit. That he’s going to say “thank you, ma’am” and bolt for the door. He doesn’t, of course, because he’s wonderful, but the fear lingers, even as he traces his finger down my arm.

He watches me closely and says, “How are you doing?”

His concern nearly makes me melt into my pillow. “I’m okay. Good, actually. Having someone here who knows what happened… it’s a weight off my chest. Thank you.”

“I’m happy to lend you my ear anytime,” he says. “And, you know. Other parts, too, if you want them.”

I snort-laugh and grab one of my throw pillows to bop him on the head. He takes it from me and retaliates, and soon we’re twisted together, laughing and kissing. Once we’ve calmed down, he rests his cheek against the bare skin of my chest and sighs.

“Thank you for talking to me,” he says. “I know it wasn’t easy.”

I run my fingers through his hair. “It was eating me alive.”

The sunlight is going yellow, and the thought of having our moment crashed by an inevitable wave of Audrey bums me out. I don’t want him to go, but I don’t want him to have to do an awkward walk of shame past my roommate, either.

I very reluctantly nudge him and say, “I wish we could do this all day, but Audrey will be awake soon and it’d be in both our best interest to avoid her onslaught of questions and squeeing.”

He groans. “I take your point. I’m on first shift at the café, anyway. They’re trying out this new brunch thing with duck egg toast and the whole shebang.”

I giggle. “You said shebang.”

Another brief pillow fight later, he’s pulling on his jeans and I’m slipping a jersey tank top over my head. I start twisting my hair into a bun, but he puts his hand over mine and plants a kiss on the crown of my head.

“I like it when you wear it all loose,” he says. “It’s sexy.”

“I’m a lot of things, but I don’t think sexy’s one of them,” I scoff.

He turns me around until I’m looking up at him. “You’re wrong,” he says.

I’m not sure I believe him, but I let my hair fall loose over my shoulders anyway. Then I stand on tiptoe to press another kiss to his mouth, enjoying the thrill it sends down to my toes and back again.

I say, “I’m going to call you later. Make sure you pick up, okay?”

“Of course I will. I’m off at three,” he says.

Carefully, we creak my door open and tiptoe down the hall until we reach the common room. I let out a breath when it’s mercifully empty – Audrey’s not laying in wait to pounce on us.

We creep around the breakfast bar to the foyer and I blush as I notice our coats are neatly hung on the hooks by the door. Audrey definitely knows Ezra stayed, not to mention that we didn’t bother hanging our jackets. I sheepishly hand his coat to him. He drapes it over his arm and appears unfazed, which either means he doesn’t remember that it was on the floor or doesn’t care. If I had to guess, I’d wager on the latter.

I crack the front door and Ezra slips out, turning to give me one last kiss and a grin before he heads off into the morning.

“Remember me fondly when she asks for all the sordid details,” he says.

I laugh and kick out at him playfully. “Get out of here. I’ll call you later.”

Right as I turn the deadbolt on the front door, I hear a loud groan behind me and nearly jump out of my skin. I whirl around to find Audrey, dressed in these adorably childlike pajamas her mom got her for Christmas with coffee mugs printed all over it.

“I can’t believe I missed him,” she whines. “I was going to make you both waffles.”

I roll my eyes. “Who are you, my mother?”

She smirks at me. “No mother would be as proud as I am this morning.”

Before I can stop her, she grabs my wrist and drags me to a seat at the bar.

“You’re getting an after-sex waffle and you’re going to tell me all about last night,” she says, happily pawing through our cupboards for her waffle iron.

I groan in embarrassment and sink my head down onto my folded arms. “Do we have to do a play-by-play?”

“Absolutely,” she says. Then she turns around, whisk in hand, and adds, “You did get laid last night, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I mumble into my arms.

“Fantastic. Leave nothing out.”

As she pulls out all the ingredients for waffles and begins to stir the batter, I oblige her with a fairly streamlined version of events, leaving out the part where I broke down and spilled my life history.

She tuts at me while she whisks. “You’re going to make a girl beg for the juicy bits, aren’t you? Give me details or no whipped cream on your waffle.”

“Rude,” I say, leaning my chin on my hand. “What about you, huh? Anything happen with Duke last night?”

“A make-out and a little under the shirt action doesn’t hold a candle to a full-fledged home run,” she says. The batter sizzles against the waffle iron and she presses it closed.

My mouth falls open. “You guys made out? Was it over the bra or under?”

“Ah, ah.” She pulls a sealed bag of coffee out of the freezer and dumps beans in her grinder. “Don’t change the subject.” She presses down and the beans protest loudly as they’re pulverized.

Once the grinder’s quiet again, she arches an eyebrow at me and I comply.

“Okay, fine. It was… good.”

She pours the ground coffee into the filter, starts up her fancy $300 Crate&Barrel coffee contraption, and goes to take the first waffle out. “Good. That’s all you’re going to give me?
Good
?”

“Great, actually,” I admit.

“Now we’re talking,” she says, leaning over the counter. “Explain.”

My neck gets warm. “He’s really good with his hands.”

“Nice. Go on.”

I close my eyes and remember. “It was like art, like we were working together to make something beautiful. Everywhere he kissed me felt white-hot. There was a point where I thought I would burn up.”

When I look at Audrey again, she’s unimpressed. “That’s all very poetic,” she says, “But did he rock your world?”

I blink at her. “Excuse me?”

“Did he hit the bull’s-eye?” she says. “Send you a-quiver? Cause a womb furie?”

“Oh my god,” I blurt. “Who even are you? Yes, I had an orgasm. Oh my god.”

“Most excellent,” she says, grinning ear to ear and clapping. “I’m so proud. Also, way to find a dude who knows what he’s doing.”

“Could we eat our waffles now and pretend this conversation never took place?” I say. My entire face feels like I could fry an egg on it.

She pulls the other waffle out of the machine, tops it with towering layer of Reddi-Whip, and hands it to me, along with our glass bottle of real maple syrup. Then she pours me a cup of coffee and slides that over, too.

“By all means, enjoy,” she says. “You’ve earned it.”

I groan again and she laughs at me like an evil-but-somehow-still-loveable harpy.

“Seriously, though,” she says as she digs in. “I’m really glad you two found each other. I think he’s really good for you.”

“What makes you say that?” I ask, trying to hide the schoolgirl grin on my face by pretending to concentrate deeply on the whipped cream masterpiece in front of me. Eyes on the prize, right?

Audrey is thoughtful, taking time to swallow before she answers. “When we first met, you were so locked up that I didn’t think I’d ever be able to crack you. I took it as a personal challenge, and I think I got under your shell a little, but never enough to open you up. I don’t even know where you’re from. You always seemed so distant, so sad, like something was stolen from you. Then you met Ezra, and you’re actually smiling and going out. You’re laughing.”

Her plate clinks as she sets it down on the counter and looks me in the face.

“You’re happy, Mia. And that makes me happy for you.”

An unexpected wave of affection washes over me and I abandon my pretence and my waffle, as I pull Audrey into a tight hug. I had no idea how badly I needed a friend. She’s surprised at first, but quickly recovers and returns my hug with enthusiasm.

“Maple Valley,” I say.

“What?” she says, backing out of our hug to look at me.

“That’s where I’m from,” I say. “Maple Valley, Washington. My parents live there. It’s… complicated.”

She squeezes my hand. “My mom still tries to convince me to go back to school and find a doctor to marry because she thinks career women are a passing fad. I understand complicated.”

I squeeze her back and say, “Thanks for being you. I’m going to go get ready for work. Don’t think I won’t be asking about Duke later.”

Her grin is wicked. “I look forward to telling the tale.”

E
ven Sampson notices
there’s something different about me today.

“You’re chipper,” he says, eyes narrowed. “You’re never
chipper.
”

I shrug. “The sunshine brings out the pigtailed cheerleader I keep locked away inside, I guess.”

His eyes are still narrow. “You were a cheerleader?”

I laugh as I clock in, leaving him contemplating my mysterious good mood. Darling man.

It’s a pretty typical day – several regulars stop in to grab their tried-and-true favorites and a dozen people stop by before noon to pick up the latest buzzed-about action thriller. Those books all sort of look the same to me, but what do I know. Don’t judge a book by its cover, and all that.

Man, maybe the sunshine over the last few days really is giving me giddy-brain.

Right as I’m about to take my lunch break, the director of the MAG stops in and I’m so pleased to see her. Angela’s wearing her typical floral printed dress (blue and yellow today) and she’s carrying a bunch of flyers under her arm. When she spots me, she waves and comes straight over.

“Mia, I’m so glad you’re working today. I know you’ll give this a prime spot in the window for me,” she says, holding out the flyer. I take it from her and read it over.

The MAG is hosting its annual local artists’ showcase, featuring all the big names across a variety of mediums from throughout Portland. I can’t wait to go see the display, but then something else printed in big block letters catches my attention.

“You’re holding a contest?” I ask, looking up at her.

“That’s right,” she says. “We’re always on the lookout for fresh talent, you know that. I hope you’ll enter.” She reaches out to take my hand and squeezes.

That’s so like her, trying to get me to admit that I’m an artist. She seems to think I’m this great well of untapped talent. I’d hate for her to see my drawings and realize how generic I really am.

“I don’t think so,” I say. “But I think I know someone who might be interested.”

She clucks her tongue at me. “One day, I’ll show your work in the gallery. Still waters run deep, you can’t fool me.”

I pay her a polite smile and chat for a few minutes more before she has to leave. Once she’s gone, I look over the flyer again. It lists the featured artists, then gives information about the contest. All mediums are welcome, and the only requirement is that the winner be local to Portland. There’s a cash prize and the winning piece will be featured alongside the other, more established artists. It’s an incredible opportunity for exposure.

There’s no way my art is anywhere close to MAG-worthy, but when I think of the raw, cracked-open feeling I get every time I look at Ezra’s work, I can’t help but think the rest of the world needs to feel it, too. He deserves to see how powerful his art is.

It’s 3:30, which means Ezra should be off work.

“Sampson?” I call as I hang the flyer. He makes an affirmative noise from somewhere in the back. “I’m taking my break.”

I go outside to soak up some of the remaining sunshine while I make my call. I probably shouldn’t be this nervous, but I can’t help it. It’s our first post-sex contact, and the darkness in my brain is expecting him to be long gone, even though logically I know he’s not the type. Hard to ignore the nasty voice in your head telling you you’re not worth it.

The phone barely makes it to the third ring before Ezra answers, and I breathe a tiny sigh of relief.

“Shame on you, making a guy wait a whole thirty minutes,” he says. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” I say, and I really mean it. Hearing his voice lifts a weight off my chest that I didn’t even know was there. “How’d the brunch experiment go?”

“We were booked solid. My arms are killing me from carrying platters. Serves me right for mocking duck eggs earlier. Apparently people go nuts for them.”

“People do love their weird eggs,” I say. “Listen, I have some really good news.”

“Yeah?” he says, and he sounds genuinely interested. “Are we finally going to open that painting school for abandoned kittens so they can rediscover their self-esteem?”

I laugh. “Not yet. I’m still waiting for the bank to get back to me about that loan. You remember the director of the MAG?”

“Sure,” he says.

“She stopped by today with a flyer for the local artist’s showcase. They have it every year.”

I can practically hear his smile as he says, “Are you asking me to be your escort?”

“Not exactly. This year, they’re holding a contest to discover a new local artist, and anyone can enter. Your paintings would be perfect. They’re so powerful, I know they’d speak to people. I think you should enter.”

Ezra doesn’t answer. In fact, I can’t make out any sound on the other end at all. I pull the phone away from my ear to make sure it didn’t disconnect.