“Thanks, but you can stop racking your brain for a way to explain why you weren’t the first to get the news. Sinclair’s messing with you. She knows we’re not really engaged. I told her last week because I didn’t want her wasting time designing rings for us.”
“Oh.” Could Sinclair keep a secret?
Sinclair patted his arm as she walked past him on her way to the kitchen. “Don’t worry. My lips are sealed.” She put the wine on the counter and dug around in a drawer for a corkscrew.
Savannah went to the table and took a seat. He picked up the bag of blueberries and settled it across her knuckles. She gave him an exasperated look but left them there.
Sinclair brought the bottle, the corkscrew, and three glasses to the table. He commandeered the corkscrew and did the honors while Sinclair fussed over Savannah’s hand.
“Dang, girl. You really nailed him, didn’t you? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. The paramedic who rushed to my rescue assured me nothing’s broken, which is good because I’ve got a load of work to do between now and New Year’s Eve.”
He poured a glass of wine and pushed it to Savannah. “What happens New Year’s Eve?”
“The Mercer hosts a series of showcases, kicking off on New Year’s Eve. They spotlight artists to watch in the coming year, invite their best clients, curators from major museums, and buyers for private collections. After my gallery folded, I approached Mercer and had a really good meeting with the director. She felt me out about participating in a showcase, but mentioned they’d already finalized their featured artists for New Year’s. This week a mixed-media artist
they originally selected withdrew for personal reasons. They called me. I’m in.”
Sinclair accepted the glass of wine he slid toward her and high-fived Savannah. “I told you they’d call. Which of your works are you going to exhibit?”
“Well, there’s the thing. I have three large pieces I managed to get back from my old gallery before the Feds closed them down, but Mercer wants more—the manager told me the commission agreement they’re sending will specify five additional works. Smaller scale, thank God, because I can create those mostly on my own, but I’ve got four weeks to work my magic. I’m going to be busy.”
“Here’s to busy.” Sinclair raised her glass and tapped it to Savannah’s. Beau poured a splash of wine into the third glass and did the same. Then he took a sip and immediately wished for a beer. Which he had, waiting for him across the hall in the bag of groceries he’d yet to put away. Time to head out.
He pushed the cork into the bottle and placed it in the middle of the table. “My work here is done. Sinclair, have a good flight.” And then, to Savannah, he said, “Keep the ice on for another ten minutes, then take a break, then ice it for another ten before you go to bed.”
“I will. Thanks for everything. Sorry for dragging you into my drama.”
He shrugged off the apology and crossed to the door. Compared to the dramas he confronted on the job, hers barely fit the definition, but he was happy enough not to transport anybody to the ER—particularly her. “Being engaged to a paramedic comes with certain fringe benefits.”
The comment earned him a smile, but then her eyes widened and she jumped up. “Speaking of which, being engaged to a glass artist comes with certain benefits, too. Hold on a minute.”
He waited by the door while she ran to her bedroom, and returned in the promised minute carrying a package about the size of a shoe box. She handed it to him. “What’s this?”
“Happy birthday.”
Oh, right. The birthday present. The package suddenly felt much heavier in his hands. The idea of putting some colorful, breakable memento in his apartment tensed him up. He turned the box in his hands, looking for the easiest way to unwrap it. “Thanks.”
Her laugh told him he failed at hiding his reservations about the gift. “I packed it pretty well. Open it at your place. But don’t worry. It’s small and unobtrusive, just like we discussed.” She fiddled with his hair as she spoke, brushing it back from his forehead, and then his temples. Maybe he’d hold off on a trim.
“Okay.” He opened the door and paused at the threshold. “See you later.”
“No kiss goodnight?” Sinclair stared at the two of them expectantly.
He blew Sinclair a kiss, and walked back to his apartment. The birthday present went on his kitchen counter while he put the groceries away and popped the cap off a beer. He made a sandwich and ate it, rinsed the plate, loaded the dishwasher, and took care of a bunch of other small chores, all the while feeling oddly solitary. The mood irritated him, because he liked his space, dammit. He got all the interaction he needed at work, and plenty of chaos to go with it. At home, he preferred calm. Quiet. Order. He enjoyed control of his environment.
The box on the counter caught his eye. He finished his beer, tossed the empty, and rubbed his palms on his jeans. Then he reached for the box. And hesitated. Every colorful, cluttered inch of Savannah’s apartment flashed through his mind. Not a calm, orderly space.
Shit. This thing was going to stick out like a neon rainbow in his apartment.
It’s temporary. You can put it in a closet after your parents visit.
Right. He used a letter opener to cut through the tape across the top of the box, dug into a bunch of Styrofoam peanuts, and pulled out…a blue blown-glass vase. A bouquet of spiral-petaled daisies bloomed out the top, and a sneaky, iridescent green snake curled around the vase, from the base to the neck.
He felt his lips twitch as he slowly turned it, viewing the thing from all sides. Very funny. And fitting. And a guy like him could appreciate the practicality, because these flowers would never die.
…