48. Your Favorite Color

48

YOUR FAVORITE COLOR

Maeve

“How?”

I can’t even begin to process how he’s pulled this off. It’s stunning. I stand in the backyard, staring—no, gawking—at the sunroom, now completely transformed. Even at night, under the soft glow of string lights, I can see the changes. The large windows reveal it’s no longer just a spot for a casual coffee break—which he never takes. There’s an easel inside, the one I had tucked away in the guest room, and shelves lined with paints, as well as a workbench like the one I use to make mirrors.

“What did you do?”

Asher’s smile radiates with pride, deservedly so. “ I didn’t really do anything.”

“I mean, how did you pull this off?”

“I hired a couple of guys. They built the workbench in their workshop and brought it over. Then, while we were out today, they wired up the lights and added some blinds to control the sunlight. They moved out everything I never use and brought in your things.” He hesitates, then adds, “I wanted to make sure you had a space of your own.”

I’m afraid to say the obvious—that I’m leaving soon, I’m not staying here much longer—but I feel like I’d be pointing out the wrong thing at the wrong time. Instead, I say, “Are you sure? This feels like so much.”

He arches a defiant brow. “Are you telling me it’s too much?”

It’s a bit of a challenge, in a tone that makes it clear he doesn’t have the same fears I do. He’s unafraid to show how deep and wide his feelings go.

I suppose we’re all afraid of different things, and he’s done so much to allay my fears.

But also to lift me up. “It’s perfect, and I’m overjoyed,” I say, my voice cracking as I let my emotions show. I let him see all the real things I feel, including the tears of gratitude that slip down my cheeks. “Thank you.”

He seems to fight off a smile. “Even if you only use it for a couple more months, I wanted you to have it. You said you needed separation from where you sleep to make your art. So if inspiration hits at midnight or six in the morning…”

I laugh softly, brushing away the tears and swallowing some of these too-big emotions. “I’m not up at six in the morning.”

He smirks. “Work with me, Maeve. What if you’re inspired at nine o’clock at night or at midnight? What if something calls to you? What if you want to finish one of your mirrors or paint a concept for a mural? If you want to do it, you can do it here. If something calls to you, you have everything you need.”

My stomach twists from all the what-ifs .

But especially the what-if of us. The future is racing toward us. The future where this temporary marriage ends when the season does. It’s March, and the pages on the calendar are flipping too quickly.

“Are you sure? This is so big. So wonderful.”

Asher steps forward. “We’ll always be friends,” he says, his voice thick with emotions. Then in a raw, stripped bare tone he adds, “You can always use it. It’s yours.”

Oh god. That’s the biggest gift of all. He’s giving this to me as my friend. He’s giving it without strings or conditions. He’s giving it solely because he wants me to have it. The way he gives so completely fills my heart like a cup overflowing with the sweetest wine, like sunlight flooding a room, like love finding its way through the darkest of places.

“Asher, I love it,” I say quietly, and even though the words stop there, the truth lingers— I think I’m falling for you, and I don’t know what to do with all these feelings gathering strength inside me, marching relentlessly toward my bruised heart.

“Good,” he says with the confident smile of a man who knows he’s pulled this off. He places a hand on my back. “Let’s go see your new studio.”

I’m giddy as he guides me along the stone path through the beautifully landscaped yard. The soft glow from the string lights makes everything feel peaceful, but festive too, like they’re an invitation to create at all hours. We step onto the floating deck, built around a tree with a hanging chair swaying gently in the breeze. It’s scary how perfect it is—how easily I can picture myself there.

He slides open the door, motioning for me to enter. “For Maeve Hartley, one of the top artists in California. Too bad I didn’t get it done before the photographer came out.”

I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in weeks. “Are you kidding? I love it. I love it just for me.”

“Good, because I didn’t do it for California Style . I did it for you.”

My heart stutters, then slams against my chest, pounding in a rhythm that feels too good. I feel like my veins are glowing.

Inside the studio, the lighting is soft, casting a warm glow over the carefully arranged space. It’s a space for me to create, one I don’t have to share with others, one I don’t have to squeeze myself into.

But it’s not just the space I love—it’s the way the entire backyard leads here with the string lights, the landscaping, the peace and calm, the way I can shut the door and get lost in my art.

I’m overjoyed. “I want to try it out right now,” I say, feeling like a kid at Christmas. Like he’s just given me roller blades and I must race down the street now, feel the wind in my hair, the muscles pumping in my legs.

Asher walks over to the shelves, tapping his chin. “Let’s see then. I ordered some of the paints you like. The ones made with non-toxic chemicals. They’re all cruelty-free.”

That’s it. My heart is going to burst.

Tears prick at the back of my eyes. “How did you know…?”

He turns to face me, and his gaze softens. “You mentioned it once, how important that was—for you to find materials that didn’t cause harm. I thought, if you’re going to paint here, I want you to have everything you need. ”

I swallow hard, overwhelmed by how much attention he’s given to every small detail. “This…means so much.”

Then, with a playful gleam in his eyes, he lifts a tube of paint and adds, “And if memory serves, red is your favorite color?”

His gaze drifts down to my chest, and I’m sure we’re both suddenly remembering that day in the studio, when he ran his finger across the red paint on my skin, when his touch lit me up, made me sizzle.

“Did you have something in mind to break in the studio, husband ?”

His smile is sinful. “I sure do.”