Page 20 of Silver Linings

eleven

. . .

“I can’t believe I didn’t know this place existed!”

Standing on the threshold of Get Nailed, Silver’s eyes dart all around, unable to settle on a single place to land because there’s too much to take in.

We’re in that cave where Aladdin finds the genie’s lamp, except filled with screwdrivers and nails instead of treasure, jammed full floor to ceiling with materials that could fall with one ill-timed sneeze.

“This place must be like porn for you.”

I choke around a laugh. “Sometimes, thoughts are meant to stay inside your head, you know.”

She beams up at me and Christ , she’s beautiful, but also whip smart and mischievous and passionate.

I could see the determination in her eyes as she looked around her store, explaining what needed to be fixed to bring her vision to life.

There was a drive firing her speech, even as trepidation nipped at her heels.

“And deprive you of the wonders of my mind palace? That would be cruel.” That does pull a laugh out of me.

She steps further into the store, staring around in wonderment with me following closely behind, hands in the pockets of my jeans so I don’t do something stupid like touch her.

We’re closer to The Langham now and anyone could walk in and see us together.

We’re not doing anything wrong, but it wouldn’t look good.

“The paint is towards the back right corner.” I press a hand to her lower back, urging her forward, the desire to keep my hand on her courses through me before I force myself to drop it.

We walk through long narrow aisles, turning right and left then right again, passing rows of door knobs and sink faucets to gummy bears and a hundred different types of lightbulbs stacked from floor to ceiling.

Silver is on her second inappropriate joke—the first was something to do with screws, and the second about “laying pipe”. She’s doing it to rile me up, I can tell, because each time, she looks over at me in anticipation to see if I caught the innuendo. It’s equal parts charming and frustrating.

She twists around to see my reaction to her most recent joke, not realizing there are bags of concrete powder stacked in the aisle in front of her.

I open my mouth to tell her to be careful, but it’s too late.

Her shins collide with the stacked bags; she twists her body, and in an effort to catch herself, she reaches out to grab onto a shelf, only to realize there isn’t one.

Instead, Silver smacks her hand into a bundle of rakes that crash to the ground with a rattling bang.

She’s in the process of falling over when I shoot out my hand to latch onto her elbow, tugging her towards me to right the trajectory of her fall.

But I overcompensate and tug her harder than necessary, and she crashes into me.

I wrap my hands around her waist to steady her as her own come to rest on my chest. Our eyes catch, and we’re both breathing hard.

Something tells me by the way her cheeks flush, it isn’t from the near fall.

“Who even needs a rake in New York?” Her breath coasts over my mouth from the proximity, and my heart starts to beat faster. We’re still holding each other, and it feels so nice that I ignore the voice in my head telling me to let go, to stop touching her immediately.

“Maybe Raphael and the Turtles use them to clean up the garbage in the subway tunnels,” I quip.

We’re smiling at each other, only pulling away when Marjorie rounds the corner into the aisle we’re standing in.

She settles her wrinkled hands onto her hips. “What the ever loving hell are you doing back here?”

“We’ll clean it up, don’t worry.”

“I wasn’t talking about the mess. I was referring to the way you guys jumped apart like horny teenagers when I got here.” She smirks, and I look over at Silver, who is grinning like a fiend.

“Oh, I like you.”

“We need paint.” I turn on my heels and head in the direction of the paint section, hoping Silver follows.

“Would you rather be a walrus or an armadillo?”

After what felt like five hours of paint swatch deliberation, Silver settled on a pistachio green for the walls and a simple white for the bookshelves and table fixtures.

We’ve been painting for the last five minutes after spending some time clearing the counter, taping the edges, and laying down drop cloths.

We were working in companionable silence until now.

“Excuse me?”

“Walrus or armadillo, Hudson?” There’s a look of exasperation lining her features, like she’s telling me to keep up, like it wasn’t the most random question she could have come up with out of absolute thin air.

“Walrus, I suppose.”

“Interesting. Defend your position, please?”

What is happening right now?

“We’re playing twenty questions.”

Apparently I said that last part out loud. “I guess because they live in colder climates and aren’t riddled with diseases.”

“Fair play.” She nods her head, accepting my answer.

This is the most bizarre conversation I’ve ever had.

I watch her as she dips the bristled brush into the quart-sized paint bucket in her opposite hand.

A fierce look of concentration settles over her features as she skirts the edges of the wall in a thin layer.

She meets the junction of a corner and bites her plump bottom lip as she fills in the space without it dripping.

God, why am I staring at her painting a wall like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world?

Because she looks hot doing it.

My subconscious mind is an asshole and keeps reminding me of Silver in the most mundane moments, but being in her presence is worse.

There’s no escaping my wild thoughts when she’s around, especially because she changed into a pair of pink overall shorts and a strapless banded top that shows just the tiniest sliver of skin on her waist. With floral chucks and her hair half pulled back with a clip, she’s just about the cutest person I’ve ever seen.

I need to get a grip.

“What about you? Walrus or armadillo?” I’m desperately trying to move my mind to anything other than that sliver of skin and the wisps of icy hair falling around her face.

“Definitely a walrus. Armadillos are basically roadkill, and I’m not trying to become some rando’s dinner.” I’m saved from having to respond when she asks a follow up question. “What do you do for fun?”

I open my mouth to respond but the words catch in my throat.

I—I can’t think of anything, and thinking back on recent years only dredges up memories of long hours working for my dad.

But Silver is staring at me with expectant eyes, and the thought of telling her the truth—that I don’t know what fun is anymore—isn’t something I want to do.

“Usually wind up at The Blackbird.” I focus on painting my section of the wall while thinking up a question of my own before she can ask me any more. “Did you always want to work around books?”

She hesitates. “You’re supposed to ease into the intensity of the questions, Hal.” Her intonation reads like she’s joking, but I can see a slight shuttering behind her eyes.

“If you aren’t comfortable—” She waves me off, focusing intently on the spot she’s working on.

“My dad used to take me to the bookstore every Saturday when he wasn’t on a work trip.

It became sort of a tradition. He loved books and always said he wanted me to have worlds I could escape into when I needed it.

” She takes a deep, steadying breath. “I guess I wanted to keep the tradition alive even though he isn’t.

When you work in a bookstore, every day can be Saturday. ”

She looks over to me then, and I can see a deep pain cascade over her whole being before she catches it and forces a smile.

“Favorite ice cream?” I ask, wanting to turn the fake smile into a real one.

“Chocolate hazelnut crunch. You?” She grabs the roller out of the tray and points it at me menacingly. “I swear on Ben and Jerry, if you say you don’t like ice cream too, I’ll never speak to you again. I can’t handle you not liking donuts and ice cream.”

I laugh, big and hearty and real. She keeps doing this to me.

“I like ice cream, and I guess butter pecan is my favorite.”

She scoffs. “Okay, grandpa.”

I don’t think, I react, taking the paintbrush in my hand and swiping it down her cheek. She’s frozen, delight and shock written clear across her face like the stripe of pale green that now adorns it. Slowly, she nods her head, pursing her lips and clearly plotting my demise.

She looks up, and the fire is back in her eyes. She slowly steps toward me, a hunter stalking its prey and a wicked gleam in her eye. I take a step back, hands up in surrender, but quickly hit the corner of the cabinet.

“Listen, Savannah, I think we can talk this through like rational adults.” I finally take part in her game of names to try and placate her, but all it does is bring a dark sort of glee to her stunning face.

She prowls closer, within arm’s reach now. “The thing is, Hector…I’m not a very rational person.”

With revenge burning in her gaze, she brings up the paint roller and starts a path from the edge of my jaw, down my neck, and onto my arm, covering half my tattoos.

I deserve this fate and have nowhere to go—she has me caged in.

But then, she makes a move to do the same to my other side.

I grab hold of her wrist to try and wrangle the roller out of her hand.

Her grip is firm when she turns on her heel, swinging herself under my arm and fighting for control.

In the process of the maneuver, she ends up in front of me, her back flush to my chest, my arm wrapped around her waist.