Bo gave her a suspicious look. “Okay,” he drawled.
They each spent a few minutes sorting their letters. He had a Z and a blank, but he couldn’t think of a decent word. Across from him, Heather was moving around tiles obviously wild with possibilities.
“What about you?” he asked. “How did you become an artist of stamps? Is there like a stamp school or something?”
She laughed, looking at her tiles. “Yes. It’s a very small school.”
“Ha-ha.”
“Do you want to go first?”
“No, you go first. Please,” he added with a groan while looking at his hopeless letters.
Heather set five tiles on the board to spell PEACE. “Not great, but I like the word.”
She counted up the points while he studied the board. “Really,” he said, thinking. “How does one become a creator of stamps?”
“There is no one way. Artists come in all shapes and sizes. I’d been accepted at SCAD—Savannah College of Art and Design. I was excited to go. But . . .” She sighed. “After the accident, I—well, I couldn’t possibly go away to school. I couldn’t go to school at all.” She laughed shortly. “I guess you could call that my gap year.”
She glanced at him, but Bo didn’t see humor in that.
“But at home I drew all the time,” she continued. “It was my obsession. My own personal therapy. I didn’t go anywhere without a sketch pad and pencil. My father was impressed and encouraged me to study. Eventually, when I felt I could, I took a class at the University of North Carolina in Charlotte. I could commute, you see. Then in time I took more, and then still more until I got my degree in fine art.”
Bo moved his tiles on the rack. “Did you date anyone in particular?” He kept his eyes down but could feel her gaze on him.
“Yes,” she replied. “Of course.”
“Anyone special?”
“One boy, Noah,” she said. “Or man, I should say. I’ve known him since we were little.”
“Do you still see him?”
“I do. On occasion. Our first date was a setup. Our fathers are business partners. I’d liked Noah since I was a little girl so I didn’t feel anxious around him.”
“Did you love him?”
“I thought I did,” she answered honestly. “But what did I know of love? He was more my best friend. I could talk with him without feeling nervous. You know how important that is for me,” she said with a nervous giggle. “We tried dating on and off. But we both knew it was never going to work.” She sighed. “He’s still a good friend. I’m glad of that.”
Bo didn’t respond. He picked up his tiles and made a word. “ZAG,” he said and began counting points.
“That’s not a word,” she argued.
“Sure it is. Zag as in zig zag.”
“That’s zigzag as in one word. Where’s the zig?”
“It zagged.”
She laughed and shook her head. “Oh, sure, why not?”
“So,” he said, reaching for his wineglass, “where do you work?”
“I work freelance. Sort of like you. I submit proposals, and if the client likes my work, I get the job.”
He raised his glass toward her. She picked hers up.
“Here’s to being our own bosses.”
They clinked glasses, smiling at each other over the rims.
The fire snapped and crackled, warming the small room. Outside the storm whistled at the windows and rain pattered on the rooftop. Thunder rolled in tympanic majesty, a rhythmic backbeat to the sensations growing in their bodies.
Bo felt he was getting all the signals from her, but he knew she was shy. He didn’t want to rush her. He shifted so he could look at her expressive face to gauge her emotions. Despite anything she might say, he knew her face would reveal the truth.
“Heather?”
Heather lifted her eyes, and Bo lost his breath at what he saw there. Desire, yes. But also tenderness and apprehension.
She reached up to trace her fingers from his forehead past his eyes to his jaw. He clasped the hand and brought her fingertips to his mouth, kissing each one, never breaking his gaze.
Slowly, by degrees, Bo leaned forward. Her fingers slid from his cheek through his hair, still damp from the rain, to his neck. Then at last his lips were on hers, soft and trembling, tasting her sweetness. He moved his lips to her neck as his hands slowly slid down her body, gently untying the robe, placing his cool, smooth hand against Heather’s skin, warm to the touch. His fingers traced a path upward, rounding the curves of her breasts. When his hands at last caressed her, he bent his head and took in her nipples. She sighed, reaching up to bury her face in his neck. He brought his head back to her mouth, and kissed her, longingly, thoroughly.
Heather drew back, catching her breath. He felt her palm against his chest. A subtle pressure. A signal to stop.
Breathing heavily, he held his mouth over hers and waited.
“I think . . .” she said. Then inched back. Cooler air rushed between them. Heather sat back; flustered, she closed her robe with shaky fingers. “I think it’s my turn.” She quickly glanced at him to gauge his reaction.
Bo cocked his head. He understood that she was saying she needed more time. He’d give her all the time she needed. But he needed a little time now to cool down. He cleared his throat and swiveled to examine the board.
“I think it is. While you think of a word, and I’ll bet it will take a while with the word I left you, I’m going to scrounge around for something to eat. I’m starving.” He rose and reached for his glass.
“Wait!” Heather plopped four tiles onto the board and made a word. “Let me help. I’m starved, too.”
Bo looked over his shoulder to check out her word. “What the . . . ?” It was a big-pointer using six letters. “Are you some whiz-kid ringer?” he asked as she dragged him into the kitchen.
They talked and laughed as they rummaged through the cupboards, pulling out crackers, cookies, nuts, anything that appealed to them. “You like your health food, don’t you?” he asked, looking at all the different items. He picked up a bag of cookies and began reading the ingredients. He scrunched up his face in doubt. “Are these even any good?”
“Delicious,” she said, and took the bag from his hand.
From the fridge Heather grabbed more of the grilled chicken, fresh mozzarella, rye, and every condiment she had. “We’ll have another picnic,” she said, getting into it. “You bring out the nuts and crackers. I’ll make a platter of cheese and meat and meet you out there. Oh! And turn on some music. My phone’s by the door, and you know where the speakers are.”
“I’ll pick the tunes,” he said, gathering up boxes and jars and carrying them out to the table. He was feeling good and rubbed his palms together as he scanned the room. “Mood,” he said aloud. Bo added another log to the fire, stoked it a bit, and then went to the back bedroom where he’d left his phone. Scrolling through his playlist, he smiled when he found the perfect music. Back in the living room, he set his phone into the speakers, then crossed his arms to listen. Soon the sultry, smoky sound of John Coltrane’s saxophone was playing “In a Sentimental Mood.”