Clay unlocked the door and slipped inside. “Andrea?”

“In here,” she murmured from another room.

He followed the faint sound of her voice and found her curled up on the back patio with a book open in her lap.

“Hey, babe.” He kissed her cheek, pulled off his suit jacket, and started loosening his tie.

“Mmm…hold on. Let me finish this chapter.”

Clay laughed. “I’ve heard that before.”

“Just one more,” she told him, not looking up.

“All right. Well, I’m going to go change for dinner.”

“Oh, right,” she said absentmindedly. “Chris’s thing is tonight. I’ll be up in a minute.”

“Okay. Enjoy your chapter.”

She made some noise of assent but still didn’t look up at him. Whatever she was reading must have been engrossing. Though that was Andrea. All or nothing.

Clay changed into a pair of dress khakis and a thin button-up that he rolled the sleeves up on. He put on brown boat shoes. Then, he added the jewelry box to his pocket. It bulged slightly, and he frowned. He didn’t want her guessing what he had in there.

With a sigh, he pulled out a light jacket. The nights were already getting kind of cool, so it wouldn’t look too strange. Then, he stuffed the box into his jacket pocket.

Unsurprisingly, Andrea had never appeared to change.

When he walked back downstairs, she was still lounging around in a tank top and teal cuffed shorts. Her feet were bare. She twirled her long blonde hair over one shoulder, completely fixed on the book in front of her.

“I thought you said one more chapter,” Clay said. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head.

“I did. But the last chapter ended on a cliffhanger, so I needed to know what happened next. I mean…their entire relationship was in peril.”

“Every chapter ends on a cliffhanger. That’s how they get you to stay invested.”

“Shh,” she said, waving her hand at him. “One more chapter.”

He slouched into the chair next to her without complaint. If she wanted to sit around and read, then that was fine by him. So long as they got to the restaurant in time, he didn’t mind.

After another twenty minutes, she finally sighed, stuck a bookmark into the book, and closed it. “They worked it out. I can move on with my life.”

Clay chuckled. “You realize they’re fictional, right?”

Andrea gasped. “What? They’re fictional? No way! They are real, damn it!”

“You kill me.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the one trying to shatter my dreams with your ‘truth,’” she said, using air quotes around the word truth.

“Fine. They’re real, and they’re all going to run away and live happily ever after.”

She shrugged, stood, and stretched. “For now at least. I’m sure they have to suffer a little more first.”

“Don’t we all?”

“Come upstairs with me.” Andrea took his hand, and he stood, giving her a long, slow kiss. “Mmm…definitely come upstairs with me.”

He laughed. “All right, but let’s not be late for dinner.”

“Just a teensy bit late?” she encouraged with another kiss.

“You might be able to convince me.”

She dragged him off the patio and then up the stairs. They were on the second landing when Andrea stopped abruptly. “Actually…I have another idea.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

His eyes cut to her studio. As promised, he’d put a lock on the door for her, and since they’d moved in, he hadn’t been inside. He was curious, of course, but he would never invade her privacy. This was important to her. He respected that.

“Come with me.” She walked tentatively toward the door and stopped with her hand on the handle.

“You don’t have to show me.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But…I want to.”

He nodded, understanding that she was finally unlocking the last piece of herself for him, and then she opened the door. She took a deep breath, pushing it all the way open for him. He followed her into the space.

It was perfect. So inherently Andrea that, for a second, it was as if he couldn’t breathe. The painting he had bought her hung like a trophy from the wall, but otherwise, the room was covered in canvases. One wall full of modern art was a kaleidoscope of colors. The others were dark and broody. Almost all were black and white with just a few streaks of color here and there. Still more paintings were lying on the table in the center of the room—unfinished and in need of more work.

He could almost see her in here, deciding what to work on each day. Picking up a piece at random and throwing all her thoughts and ideas onto the canvas. They didn’t have to be for anyone else. Just her.

And, thus, they were exquisite. Each and every one of them.

She had none of the pressure of showing them to the public for critiques or for the need for approval through a sale. She just had the canvas, paint, and the brush. He loved her even more in that moment. So much, his heart constricted.

“These,” she said tentatively, pointing to the bright paintings, “I think were my favorites that I did over the last couple of years…before…well, before the breakup. I tried replicating artists I admired until my work started taking on its own form.”

She bit her lip and then drew her gaze to the darkened side of the room. “These, I did while we were apart.”

It was like seeing a window into her soul. Those months apart had been brutal, dark, depressing, agonizing. He could see it in every brushstroke. In the dark lines and the dark colors and the depressing dark emptiness of the paintings.

He choked on words.

“I think my new stuff is a compromise,” she said, gesturing to the exquisite paintings on the table.

They were a compromise. Halfway between the strict structure and bright colors of the early years and the dark depressing months apart. Happy, whole, united with love. That was what her new work screamed.

And then he knew. He just knew.

Fuck it.

“Run away with me.”

“What?” she asked. She was threading her fingers together, as if anxious of what he would think of the pictures. As if he could think anything she had created was less than amazing.

“Run away with me.” He took her hand and drew her toward him.