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Hell, some of these don’t even look like paintings, but photographs, they’re so crystal clear.

I take extra care with her unfinished pieces, packing things up as best I can, trying to set it in boxes how it’s grouped all over her floor and in some bins she already has stacked to the side of her easels.

When I get back to my place, the concierge, Pete, assists me in bringing everything upstairs.

By the time I hear the front door unlocking, Cara using the key I gave her before she left for work, I’m almost done setting everything up in the room I showed her last week could be hers if she did move in with me.

Lucky me it only took food trucks and two weeks for me to get her where I want her.

Grinning, I wipe dust off my hands and head out to the living room. Like always, Lucy has greeted Cara and Cara’s ass is to her heels as she bends down, rubbing the dog’s head and petting her.

I’ve had Lucy for months now, and while a few people seemed interested at first, the longer I have her, the harder it’s getting to want to let her go.

Plus, now that she’s all about Cara, I don’t even know if Iwantto give her up. She’s a mixture of fierce-looking and dopey, but she’ll be a big damn dog in just a few months and a good protector to have around when I’m not here.

On the other hand, I’m also getting ready to have a baby. What asshole raises a kid and a massive dog in a penthouse apartment?

But what else am I supposed to do? Give up the view I’ve always wanted? The view I promised Irvin I’d have?

“Hey,” Cara says, snapping me out of my runaway thoughts.

I push them to the back of my mind. “How was work?”

“Good.” Cara stands, laughing lightly as Lucy bumps her thigh. “It was slow, but it helped to stay busy.”

“Have you eaten?” Usually when she gets busy she forgets.

She rolls her eyes, dropping her purse on the couch. I’m not a neat freak, but I like shit put away. I’m quickly learning Cara tosses whatever she has wherever it can go. But there’s something about her purse on my couch, her black boots kicked off onto the floor near the entryway, that doesn’t bug me.

Ilikeher crap strewn about my place.

“Yes, I ate. Luca insisted and bought me French onion soup and a salad.”

“Good. Come here.” I hold out my hand, waiting as she gives me a curious look and heads my way. We’re at the mouth to the hall and her new art room is just past where I’m standing, but she still has a glimpse of a smile tugging on her lips as she makes her way to me.

“What is it?”

“A surprise.”

“Surprise?” Her brows bounce up. “A good one?”

“I hope so.”

I take her hand when she’s close enough, pulling her behind me, and then I push open the door to the room. We’re blasted with the afternoon sun shining directly inside the windows and a gasp comes from behind me.

“What did you do?” Her hands are at her mouth, eyes wide, skipping and dancing over all of her stuff. I had some empty shelves, so I placed a lot of her smaller buckets of brushes and rags on those. Her paints are separated by type: acrylic, latex, watercolors, on the floor in wooden buckets she already had. Her paint dishes are stacked on another shelf, and her canvases, the completed ones, are spread throughout the room, where I’ve hung two of my favorite ones.

One’s a view of Lovejoy Street, with its boardwalk sidewalks, metal chairs placed outside a well-loved bakery. Trees line the sidewalk, cars zip along the street, black canopies overhang the doorways of various restaurants. The entire painting is as if she pulled up a chair and an easel, one sunny, slow morning, and painted until she’d finished.

It’s amazing, and it’s part of Portland, and as soon as I saw it, I had to hang it so it could be seen every day.

“You did this?” Cara asks, walking into the room, stopping in front of her painting.

“It’s too incredible to be hidden behind other canvases.” Her cheeks turn a rosy pink and she shakes her head. “Have you ever showed these to Luca? They’re way better than that other artist’s stuff.”

“Thanks.” She laughs but it’s an uneasy sound. Tucking a small chunk of her hair behind her ear, she shakes her head again. “I haven’t. He knows I paint, but I’m not trained. It’s just in my head.”

Which makes her that much more impressive.