Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
“Oh please, you love being in charge,” she teases.
“In bed,” I point out.
She scoffs. “Asher, you love control in general.”
I bristle a little—maybe because it’s true. “Fine, but that has nothing to do with keeping a dog.”
But deep down, I’m secretly thrilled she’s asking me if we can. Every time she says we, this romance feels more real, more permanent. A life with her. Like we’re inching closer to the moment when I’ll finally tell her I love her. But I hold back. I won’t scare her away.
Adopting a dog feels like a commitment, even though I know it’s Maeve’s dog—she’s the one taking care of her while I’m on the road, arranging vet visits, and walking her. Still, that we is pulling me closer to what I’ve wanted for a while now. To find that perfect moment to tell her she’s the love of my life. I’ve been trying to show her for the last several weeks. Maybe she’s finally ready to hear it.
“I can’t say no to you,” I admit.
She cheers. “You can stay, girl,” she says to the dog, who makes an unusual sound in response—one that sounds strangely like a rooster’s crow.
“What was that?” I ask.
“Oh, she has a weird bark.” There’s a pause, then an excited gasp. “That’s it! Her name is Rooster.” I laugh as Maeve continues, “She cocked her head—yup, it’s her new name. Actually, hold on. I’m getting a message from the goddess of dog names…wait for it…Her name is Ruby Rooster! Since she was red–thanks to our paint–when we found her, and she barks like a rooster.”
The Vancouver arena comes into view as I say, “Or maybe it’s because you really like…roosters.”
She snort-laughs. “I really like your rooster.”
I grin, then ask about the mural. She updates me, telling me more about the love lessons mirrors, the night market, and she suddenly brightens. “Oh! And this coffee shop called. It’s called High Kick Coffee—they have an art gallery run by a former Vegas showgirl. She saw the piece in California Style earlier this week, and she loves to support women artists and wants some of my paintings on the walls. They sell a lot of art there.”
I think about that for a beat. “You know, now that you mention it, you do see a lot of art in coffee shops these days.”
“Exactly! I think they’ve become the new galleries, making art more accessible,” she says. I can picture her sinking into the couch, feet tucked under her, wearing one of her signature T-shirts, hair in a messy bun, and the image nearly makes me blurt out, I love you.
“Funny thing is,” Maeve continues, “once upon a time, I really wanted my art in galleries like the Frieda Claiborne or Julien Aldridge galleries—you know, the really fancy ones I used to cater for.”
I like where this is going. “And now that’s changing?”
“I think so. The idea of my mirrors being in stores, my paintings at coffee shops—it just feels right. I finished that tree mural at the vegan café, and I’m working on the moon and stars at the yoga studio. Maybe this is what it was supposed to be all along. Maybe it was never about fancy galleries. Maybe it was about getting my art in front of people every day, where they can enjoy it. It doesn’t have to sell for five thousand dollars to make me happy. If regular people get to see it, that makes my dream come true.”
“And you’re making art for, well, everyone. Not just rich people.”
Her voice catches. “Yeah, I am. And I think that’s really what matters to me.”
I smile to myself. She’s finally finding her footing, figuring things out. Selfishly, I wonder if this newfound certainty about her career might help my cause. Maybe if she’s sorting out these parts of her life, she’ll be more open to the biggest question of all: Do you think you could love me too?
I’m nearly at the arena when she adds one more thing. “Oh, my aunt wants to take us out again when you’re back in town. She said she has exciting news for us. I have no idea what that means, but is that okay?”
“Of course,” I say, though a small knot of suspicion forms in my gut. With Vivian, “exciting news” could mean anything—from a surprise dinner to something far more complicated—like she’s giving Maeve her catering business and needs her to take it over right now.
But it’s a good thing I’ll be there—I can protect Maeve from whatever curveball Vivian throws.
I’m walking up to the arena now, and the noise of the city fades into the background as the game looms closer. I should be focusing on the matchup, running through plays in my mind, but the conversation with Maeve lingers. Balancing hockey and this thing with Maeve—it’s getting more complicated. And soon, really soon, I’m going to have to tell her I’m madly in love with her.