“I...” She glances behind her, and the bastard’s smile vanishes before she can spot it. “Well, Hunter was looking at my work, and we were talking about how he liked it and—”
“It’s all right, Echo,” says Hunter in a sugar-sweet way that causes me to want to punch his face. “Since you aren’t officially a part of The Attic, we haven’t discussed how there are boundaries between your professional life and your personal life. And even if we did have the conversation, you didn’t ask your boyfriend to rush in and cause a scene.”
My spine straightens, and I cross my arms over my chest. A scene? I’ll throw him through the fucking window, then we can discuss a scene.
“Maybe you and your boyfriend should take this outside?” Hunter says to her. “And after you clean up what’s going on here, we can discuss whether you can focus on a career in art.”
Echo’s cheeks flare red, and she drops her gaze. I briefly close my eyes. She’s embarrassed—over me.
Hunter leaves and heads down the stairs. Motion around us, a shifting of feet on the loft flooring, and Echo hugs herself as if the action could make her small enough to disappear. “Let’s go.”
She avoids eye contact as she passes me and doesn’t permit her arm to graze mine. Nor does she look back to see if I follow.
Pain pricks my chest. The worst type of letting go isn’t the kicking or the screaming, because at least then there’s enough emotion left to fight. No, the worst type is the silent acceptance. The quietness of the release. That’s when the person realizes they no longer give a damn.
Echo
Unable to walk past Hunter’s office, I exit at the bottom of the stairs. The large metal door clicks shut behind me, and the warm Colorado sun kisses the bare skin of my arms. The loading dock reflects me, inside and out: not much to look at and empty.
Two girls accepted me, one of the best artists in North America likes my work and whether he meant to or not, my boyfriend embarrassed me.
Crap.
Just crap.
Behind me the door squeaks open. It’s Noah. I can sense him, taste him. Like he’s been absorbed into my pores. Like he’s embedded into my being.
The urge is to run to him, to embrace him, to have his arms shelter me like they have so many times this summer, but this constant push and pull will never end if I do.
Footsteps against the loading dock and the sound of material rustling. Noah’s shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. I’ve seen him do it a million times, and I can picture him clearly in my mind: his jeans riding low against his hips, his body cocked to one side, his biceps straining as he tries to look relaxed, when on the inside he’s anything but.
“You once hugged me like that,” Noah says.
Moisture fills my eyes, and I blink it back. There’s no accusation in his voice. No anger. Just hurt.
“I brought Isaiah to work on your brother’s car to impress you. You were dating that ape Luke again, and each time I saw you with him, it got under my skin. When Isaiah told you that he could get it running and you hugged me...” Noah trails off, and I close my eyes, permitting the sweet memory of that day in the garage to caress my skin.
“I didn’t understand it at the time, but I loved you then. I fell for you the moment you called me out in the guidance counselor’s office, and I’ve been yours since.”
I love you. Words that Noah doesn’t throw around. I turn, and Noah’s exactly how I imagined—strong and handsome as ever.
“Now that’s an apology,” I whisper.
His lips tug up then fall back down. “I’m learning.”
“I wasn’t hugging him like I hugged you. Today was stupid. An impulse. That day in the garage, Noah...you meant something to me then, too. Hunter’s giving me a chance with my art. That’s all. I mean, he’s ten years older than me. He’s not even interested in me that way.”
Evidently not in agreement, Noah straightens his arms as if he’s creating fists in the pockets of his jeans. “Is he going to buy your work? Hang it in his gallery?”
“I don’t know. That’s when you interrupted.”
Noah stares at the ground, and I hate the tension building in our silence. Please, please, please let us be okay.
“Jacob’s last game is next weekend, and he wanted me to come. We could leave tonight, swing through Texas on our way home. Last week, you mentioned a gallery in Dallas then another one someplace in Oklahoma. We could visit those and not be rushed for orientation.”
My mouth pops open as I try to sort and categorize. Going home and his brothers and galleries in Texas and... “You said you wanted to go to a party tonight.”
“It’s a party. We can skip it.”
What the heck? “You made a federal case about it. You wanted to go. You’re the one that wanted to be here in Vail.”