Page 117 of Trusting You
29
Carter
“You nailed it, Princess. You sold your first piece.”
Pierce is grinning at me on the other side of the cafe’s counter. I’m casually leaning my forearms on the pastry display, pretending that a stranger displaying my art in his living room isn’t giving me all the feels in the fucking world.
“The power of the QR code, am I right?” I say to him.
Pierce laughs. “Don’t you be turning my advice into a snippy bitchy. Yes, you sold via the old ways of yore, a lone ranger coming into this joint, laying his eyes on perfection and then booming, give me that painting! A rare gift in these technological times.”
“One I’ll be sure to frame.” The check’s laying on the glass countertop between my hands.
“Stop smudging my pastry display.”
“Sorry.” I bounce up, clutching the check. “I can’t believe someone paid two hundred dollars. I can’t believe this is mine.”
Pierce gives me the side-eye. “A steal, in my opinion. You should charge more for the amount of effort you put in.”
I glance around at the remaining pieces framing his cafe walls. “These are something like five years of work. I haven’t lifted a paintbrush in…gosh…too long. This”—I raise the check—“this makes me want to find a set of paintbrushes immediately and begin again.”
“Ah, this city. So many of us begin again in the very spot you’re standing. So why not you, huh?”
I smile at him as he slides a mug over to me that Cameron has quietly crafted beside him. It’s a rare gesture, I’ve learned, from Pierce’s husband. He doesn’t say much, but his affection is obvious in his actions. Such as this one, where the foam is crafted into smiling lips with teeth.
“Thank you, Cam,” I say.
He doesn’t lift his head from the espresso machine, because with the ambulance driving by, he didn’t hear what I said.
“And also a place where so many of us do stupid things,” Pierce says, clucking his tongue as he stares out front. “Another one bites the dust.”
I lift the mug to go sit down but check my phone first. Locke should’ve been here by now. He said he was running late about an hour ago, but it’s hard to tell what he’s up to because he’s one of those guys who views texting as the exact amount of space one needs to get the point across. Most of his responses consist of k, bye, no prob, and yep.
“Excuse me for a sec,” I say to Pierce and Cameron.
Pierce nods and throws a dish towel over one shoulder, readying to assist a few people who drift into the coffee shop. Cameron, as expected, doesn’t stray from his foam art.
I take a seat at a two-top near the wall, under a painting Locke would probably like. It’s a building, an old, Parisian one I found online, and I sketched a masculine face within the concrete. A lot like an athlete’s expression, young and determined, racing to the finish line, lips peeled for one last breath before tasting success.
Maybe I’ll give it to Locke. My cheeks warm at the thought. It’s so personal, giving him a piece of my art. And he might not even like it, or worse, think it’s cute and stupid. Like I’m a tiny, besotted puppy dropping a dug-up bone at his feet.
My phone buzzes and I look over the rim of my coffee, Locke’s contact flashing.
Weird.
Locke never calls.
“Hey,” I say when I put the phone to my ear, setting down my mug.
“Is this…Carter Jameson?”
My back goes straight. I don’t recognize the male tone. “Yes. Who’s this? Why do you have Locke’s phone?”
“Your number was the top listed in his recents. Are you related to him? Or to the baby that’s with him?”
“Wha…” I choke on nothing. My rib cage calcifies, and I don’t have a reason yet. But the dread…some kind of dread is beginning to choke me. “I’m-I’m Lily’s, the baby’s—”
“Mother?”