by Katie Allen
“Fine.” He stretched out the word, making it sound as if he was sacrificing everything for her pleasure. “Table, but we have to share the pie then.”
“Nooo!” Even as she answered in a drawn-out whine, she realized that her attempts at staying professional with Louis were getting weaker. It just felt so comfortable talking with him that she fell into real-Annabelle mode, rather than sticking to work-Annabelle mode. She followed him to a table in the corner, ignoring the reasonable voice inside of her that told her she’d regret letting down her guard. “I hate sharing food with you.”
He tsked. “That’s selfish.” Even as he said that, he hurried to take the best seat, leaving her to either sit next to him or sit in her least favorite position with her back to the room.
“Is not.” Ignoring the weirdness of it, she sat in the seat next to him. There was no way she’d be able to stand not seeing what was going on in the diner, especially with Louis making faces or comments. “You take huge bites and eat the best ones first, so I only end up with an itty-bitty crumb—like a mouse-sized serving. Then, when I complain about it, you try to give me the piece of pie you don’t like and pretend that you’re being all even-Steven and magnanimous.”
By the time her mini-diatribe ended, he was grinning at her. “You’re so cute.”
Instantly all her calm, reordered thoughts were tossed up in the brain tornado again. “Uh...” She gave herself a mental slap and managed to speak rationally. “Quit changing the subject. We were talking about you being a pie hog.”
“You can get first crack at every piece,” he said, flexing and relaxing his left hand as he held the menu with his right. “Promise. I don’t want to just eat my own. The one you pick always looks better.”
“So order what I do.” Her scolding voice was halfhearted as her attention fixed on his absent motion. “Is your hand hurting?”
He glanced at her in surprise before focusing on his partial fist. “Yeah, but there’s not much to do about it. It’s the attack of the phantom fingers.”
Although he played up the last words, using a spooky horror-movie-narrator voice, she still frowned as she eyed his hand. “That seems so unfair that your fingers are gone but they still hurt. It’s like you have to put up with an obnoxious roommate who never cleans or pays rent.”
He laughed, sounding surprised as he examined his remaining fingers. “That’s exactly what it’s like.”
“May I see?” she asked, holding out her hand palm up. As soon as the question escaped, she mentally scolded herself for her tactlessness and started to withdraw. Before she could start apologizing, though, he offered his hand, plunking it down on top of hers without any sign of self-consciousness.
She’d seen his injured hand thousands of times but had never had a chance to examine it close-up. At first she’d very carefully avoided staring when she started working with him, and then it had become just a normal part of Louis that she never thought about. His ring and pinky fingers were completely gone, as was part of the outside of his hand. Absently, she massaged his palm as she inwardly flinched at the painful scars, hating that he’d gone through that.
At his muffled grunt, she looked up and met his gaze. “Sorry. Did I hurt you?”
“No.” Despite his denial, his voice didn’t sound like his happy, normal self, and she quickly released her hold. Instead of moving his hand away, he nudged it closer to her. “It feels good, actually. You can keep doing that, if you want.”
She eyed him warily, trying to figure out if he was just being polite, but then she realized there was no need. When had Louis ever done anything just because it was good manners? Resuming her massage, she kept a close watch on his face. Something in his voice and his expression was...different than usual, almost shy. The intensity from the car was starting to ramp up again, and Annabelle hurried to say something that would ease the building tension.
“Did this happen in Afghanistan?” she asked. Before he could answer, she rushed to give him an easy way out. “If this is none of my business and you don’t want to talk about it, just tell me, and I’ll shut up. Well, I’ll at least shut up about this. I can’t guarantee complete silence.”
His laugh was softer than usual, but at least he wasn’t giving her that heavy-lidded stare anymore. She had no defense against that. “I don’t mind talking about it—well, to you, anyway.” He continued before she could figure out what that last bit meant, “Yeah, it was in Afghanistan. A truck bomb. That’s how I lost my leg, too.”
“I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say, so she just continued working her fingers into the base of his thumb.
“Could’ve been worse. We didn’t lose anyone that day, just parts of us.” When he tugged his hand free of her grip, she released him immediately, trying to tell from his expression whether she’d hit a nerve—either literally or figuratively. When he replaced his left hand with his right, she smiled with relief. “Do this one now. Please.”
The warning voices in her head were positively shrieking at her now, telling her that she was in ridiculous amounts of trouble. She was touching him, massaging him, and it was not smart—not smart at all. Despite all the alarms going off in her mind, she took his other hand and started working at the tight muscles. The silence stretched and tightened, and she said the first thing that came to her mind, just to break it.
“You have calluses on top of calluses.” Of course it was something weirdly personal that fell out of her mouth. She mentally rolled her eyes at herself, even as she accepted that she wasn’t surprised. With everyone else, acting normal was easy, but with Louis... He made it impossible. Now that she’d started on the topic, she couldn’t just leave it alone, either. Oh, no. She had to make it worse. “These can’t all be from paintbrushes.”
Louis bent his head closer to hers, inspecting his own hand as if he’d never noticed it before. “Some of these are from lifting weights.”
That makes sense, she thought, struggling to keep her eyes off his very fine arms and chest.
“Not sure about the others. My crutches, maybe?”
“Really?” She met his gaze, thoughts of his muscles pushed out by her curiosity. “I’ve never seen you use crutches.”
“Don’t really have to use them much during the day now that I have a couple of legs that fit.” He patted his prosthetic knee with his free hand, and Annabelle realized that she’d been continuing to automatically massage his right one. Even when she was distracted, it seemed that she couldn’t stop touching him. “I mainly use the crutches just at night and when I’m getting ready in the mornings.”
Now she was picturing him showering, with water droplets running over those defined muscles, and her entire body went hot. Knowing that she was ridiculously red for absolutely no good reason—at least no reason that she could share with Louis—she focused on his hand, dragging her thumb along the spaces between the bones of his hand. She was determined to be strong and not crumble at the next too-intense silence that fell between them. With the images currently playing through her mind, who knew what inappropriate conversation she’d strike up next.
Louis, being Louis, didn’t seem at all uncomfortable with anything. Propping his elbow on the table and leaning his chin on his hand, he watched her massage each finger in turn. “I’m glad I hired you, Annabelle Shay.”
She gave him a quick smile but stayed silent. Even though she loved her job—and her boss—she had a sinking feeling that what they had wasn’t sustainable. How could she keep seeing Louis every day, keep joking with him and laughing with him, without her emotions exploding all over like a messy, embarrassing bomb? If he’d ever treated her as anything except an employee and platonic friend, she might’ve taken the risk and tried some flirting, but he hadn’t. In fact, she hadn’t seen him act interested in anyone.
“What?” He grinned at her.
“What?”
“You
r face went weird on me for a second.”
Instantly worried that she’d given away how she felt about him, she tried to school her expression into one of simple, innocent curiosity. “Your face is weird.”
He immediately laughed, as she’d known he would, but he didn’t drop it. “No, I meant—”
“What can I get you?” At the server’s interruption, Annabelle released a huge breath of relief.
“What kind of pie are we getting?” Louis asked, successfully distracted from his earlier questioning, and Annabelle smiled. Despite the awkwardness of her feelings popping out like they were in a game of whack-a-mole, she couldn’t help but enjoy the moment.
An evening filled with Louis and pie. Her heart was happy.
Chapter Three
Annabelle yawned as she used her key to lock the dead bolt on her front door. Despite her lazy weekend, it had been hard getting up that morning. Mondays were always rough. As she turned away from the door, she spotted her landlord—who was also her neighbor—moving quickly toward his car.
“Mr. Storvic!” She rushed down her steps and ran toward him. “Mr. Storvic, wait! I need to talk to you. It’s nothing bad, I promise! Wait!”
Instead of stopping or even acknowledging that he’d heard her, Mr. Storvic sped up, his short legs moving faster than an out-of-shape seventy-plus-year-old man should’ve been able to move. After practically diving into his car, he took off down the street, leaving Annabelle in a cloud of his exhaust.
Why is he running away from me? Completely bewildered and more than a little frustrated, she turned and headed for the walking trail. All she wanted was to extend her lease past the end of the month. He’d left a letter taped to her door a few weeks ago, informing her that he wouldn’t be renewing her six-month lease on the house, leaving her baffled. In the six months she’d rented the cute little house next door to his, she’d always paid her rent on time, kept her lawn neatly trimmed, and never complained about anything. She’d been an ideal tenant, and she couldn’t get him to tell her why he was giving her the boot. For the past couple of weeks, whenever he’d spotted her, he’d acted like she was about to mug him for his wallet for some unexplainable reason. The lease was going to expire in a week, and she still hadn’t found a new place to live.
The thought of moving again made her shudder. She loved her house, and the few prospects she’d found for new living arrangements were grim. The heavy ball of dread in her belly warned her to prepare to be homeless soon.
By the time she reached the studio, her mood hadn’t improved, despite the beautiful day with butter-yellow sunshine beaming warmly on her head. Even walking through the gallery didn’t cheer her up. Usually the sight of the bright openness and citrusy smell of the place was enough to make her heart happy, plus one of her favorite artists, Yun-seo Park, had her work displayed this week. The intricate and layered pieces were composed of acrylic paint and fabric and bits of colored paper, incorporated in such a way that the color and patterns were fascinating. On the weeks Yun-seo’s work was displayed, Annabelle often found herself staring, caught up in a piece when she should’ve been working.
Today, though, her thoughts were too gloomy for her to focus on anything else as she set up at the desk at the back of the gallery, hoping to get the bulk of her work done before they opened at ten and customers started interrupting her. She wished it were Friday, so she could huddle in her office at the back of the studio. In her current mood, she was tempted to shift the two portable wall sections from the center of the gallery closer to her desk so she could duck behind them. It was definitely shaping up to be a day she needed an impenetrable fortress to hide in.
“Annabelle Shay.” Louis rolled his office chair into the room, his prosthesis lifted off the floor and his other leg propelling him into the gallery. “You are here. Why didn’t you stop into the studio to say good morning?”
“Because I’m feeling cranky. Also, I didn’t know if you’d had a breakthrough with your painting. If you had, I didn’t want to interrupt.” Although she didn’t say it, she also didn’t want to be drawn into another unproductive day of movies and chatting if he was still stuck.
“Why are you cranky?” He came to a stop next to her desk. Apparently, she hadn’t successfully dodged him, since he was determined to chat.
“My landlord ran away from me this morning. I know he heard me yelling his name, but he still bolted.”
Making a sympathetic grimace, Louis grabbed a rubber band off her desk and started winding it around his fingers. “He’s not going to extend the lease, is he?”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Resigning herself to not getting as much done as she’d hoped before opening, she settled back in her chair, watching the hypnotic twisting and untwisting of the band around Louis’s strong fingers. She couldn’t stop thinking about how they’d felt when she’d massaged his hands at the diner on Friday night. With a great effort, she dragged her mind back to their current conversation. “There’s no way I’ll find a new place right now, not when the college students have just moved in.” Talking about it was making her even crabbier. “You’re going to walk in one day to find me snuggled up under my desk with a pillow.”
He didn’t look too upset by the idea. “You don’t have to sleep on the hard floor. I have a sofa. It’s big and soft and pretty comfy; I’ve spent quite a few nights on it.”
“Why?” she asked, distracted from her housing dilemma. “Are you having trouble sleeping?”
“Sometimes.” He shot the rubber band toward the lofted ceiling. They both watched as it fell back toward the floor, and Louis caught it in midair. “Mostly I’m just watching TV and am too lazy to crutch it back to bed. Like I said, it’s a really comfortable couch.”
“Hmm.” Annabelle didn’t quite believe him—not that it wasn’t a comfortable sofa, but that he wasn’t having sleeping issues. He was being awfully careful not to meet her eyes, which was usually a good indication that he wasn’t telling the complete truth. It wasn’t really any of her business, though—as much as she’d love it if it were—so she shifted back to their earlier conversation. “Well, thank you for the offer. I’m going to try to force Mr. Storvic to talk to me before I get too ahead of myself. Maybe he was really in a hurry this morning.”
“Uh-huh.” Louis’s tone sounded as doubtful as Annabelle felt. “What about the other fifty times you’ve tried to corner him over the past few weeks?”
“I know.” She let out a gusty sigh. “It’s unlikely. I just wish he’d tell me if he was going to be kicking me out on the first. At least then I wouldn’t have false hope.”
“I told you.” Louis fired the rubber band at one of Yun-seo’s framed pieces, ignoring Annabelle’s disapproving look. “You can stay with me. It’ll be fun, like a bunch of sleepovers in a row.”
“Okay, Sweet Valley High.” Although her voice was dry, she actually felt better than she had when she’d first arrived at work. That was Louis working his magic.
Rolling over to retrieve the stray rubber band, he started to respond, but a pounding on the gallery door interrupted him. Annabelle met his gaze, and they exchanged puzzled looks. It wasn’t as if there were that many art emergencies. With a frown, she got up and moved toward the front to see who it was. When she spotted Max standing outside the door, she groaned.
“Who is it?” Louis asked from right behind her, still in his wheeled chair.
“Max.”
“Uggghhh.” He drew out the word, turning it into a groan. “I thought he’d try the studio door. That’s why I came over here.”
She turned her frown toward Louis. “I thought you came to tell me good morning.”
There was no guilt in his expression. “That, too.”
Max must’ve spotted them, since he was gesturing them closer. Swallowing a particularly nasty string of curse words, she moved to unlock the door.
“I need to talk to Louis,” Max said. Shifting to the side, he tried to peer around her into the gallery. He seemed even twitchier than normal, his eyes darting around frantically as he shifted from foot to foot and his hairline shiny with sweat. “C’mon, Louis. You can’t just drop something like that on me and then hang up, especially after we’ve been friends for years.”
Without moving out of the way, Annabelle turned her head and gave Louis an inquiring look.
Huffing out a breath, he bent his neck from side to side, as if easing the tension in his muscles. “Fine. You can come in. We’ll talk in my studio.” Louis stood, grimacing slightly, and Annabelle wondered if his leg was bothering him or if the thought of talking to Max had made him wince.
She stepped back, wordlessly letting Max inside before she closed and locked the door again. Acting uncharacteristically meek, Max followed Louis through the gallery and into his studio, closing the door behind him.
Annabelle returned to her desk and tried to get wrapped up in her work, but the low murmur of voices coming from the studio distracted her. With the door shut, she couldn’t make out any of their conversation, except when Max raised his voice a few times, and those snippets didn’t help clarify anything. Her curiosity was nudging her to press her ear to the door, but she squashed the urge.
You’re a semi-responsible adult, she scolded herself. You’re not eight. Overhearing unintentionally was one thing, but listening at the door—no. Besides, Louis would tell her everything afterward, anyway. The final thought cheered her, and she managed to stay at her desk and even actually get some work done.
The studio door opened suddenly, jerking Annabelle out of her focused state. Max appeared more annoyed than she’d ever seen him. Inwardly she sighed, bracing for his temper tantrum. Apparently the talk with Louis hadn’t left him too pleased. She wished Louis had ushered him out through the studio exit, rather than making her deal with Max’s foul mood.
