Page 28 of P.S. I'm Still Yours

“The one we made the day you suggested that we share the shed.” He’s off the couch in a heartbeat, strolling to my painting station in the right corner of the shed.

All I remember from that day is how desperate I was for him to agree to my proposition.

“You said if I showed you my work, you’d show me yours. Paintings you’ve never shared with anyone. I haven’t seen anything yet.”

He’s right. I did say that.

Sirens blare in my head when he comes to a stop in front of my latest painting.

The one of him.

It’s covered with a cloth and nowhere near finished, but that’s not the real reason why I spring to my feet.

Would he be freaked out?

Flattered?

Would he love it, hate it, be indifferent to it?

I’m not ready to find out.

“Not that one,” I blurt out seconds before he rips the cloth off the canvas. He swivels to look at me, confusion gleaming in his eyes. “It’s… it’s not done.”

I thank my lucky stars that he doesn’t question it, answering with a nod. “You got any finished ones to show me?”

I stop to think.

Truth is, I haven’t finished many paintings in my life. Never mind, that’s not true. I’ve finished paintings, but I haven’t kept a lot of them.

Every time I finish one, I look at it until I hate it.

I try to quiet my thoughts. “Sure. I have one in the garage, I think.”

Kane raises a brow. “Only one?”

“Yeah, I’m kind of my own worst critic,” I admit as I walk to the door.

I’m back with the painting just minutes later, and I might not show it, but my hesitation has ascended into full-blown dread.

It takes everything I have not to run the other way when I find Kane sitting on the couch, waiting for me.

Clutching the canvas to my chest so that he can’t see it, I make my way over to him. This particular painting is of the sun setting on the beach in Golden Cove.

Now I understand why he was so hesitant to show me his songs. Sharing your work with others is nerve-racking.

I drop onto the couch next to him, my lungs compressing the little oxygen in them. “So… before I show you, you should know that I’m not a professional by any means. Everything I know, I’ve taught myself or seen on YouTube, and I—”

My heart leaps forward when his hand swallows mine.

I look up at him, failing to process the sensation of his fingers on my skin.

Our hands are touching.

Our. Hands. Are. Touching.

“Hads…” His voice comes out as a whisper, and he gives my fingers a small squeeze.

The contact has the effect of a bulldozer charging into the protective walls I built around myself.