Almost in Love (2 page)

Tattoo Guy suddenly looked up and met Barry’s eyes, nearly causing him to topple off his bar stool. Barry quickly averted his gaze and grabbed a handful of pretzels, concentrating on removing every bit of salt from each pretzel. They really should offer pretzels in two varieties—salted and unsalted.

A beefy hand landed on Barry’s shoulder, and something approaching a squeak emitted from the depths of his terrified soul.
Cool it! This is a public place. Lots of witnesses to prevent a homicide from occurring
.

Barry cleared his throat. “H-hi, Tat—I mean, h-how are you?”

“I know you,” Tattoo Guy said in his face. He had the worst cigarette-beer breath. Barry immediately switched to breathing through his mouth.

“I don’t think we’ve been introduced.” Barry held out his hand. “I’m Barry.”

Tattoo Guy gripped his hand, crushing his fingers. “You never saw me here.”

“No,” he gasped out.

Tattoo Guy released his hand and clapped him on the back, nearly sending him into the bar. “Enjoy your beer.”

Yeah, like he could enjoy his beer now. He sat there for a few minutes just so Tattoo Moron wouldn’t think he was the reason Barry was leaving, and headed home. When he arrived at his door, he glanced across the hall at Pink Hair’s door, wishing he had some excuse to talk to her so he could tell her to dump that asshole. He walked over and put his ear up to her door. Sounded like she was watching TV.

Why tell her about her cheating boyfriend? So you can have her?

That stopped him. He wasn’t going to hurt the woman just to further his own agenda. With a resigned sigh, he let himself into his quiet apartment. He just wished there was something he could do to alleviate her inevitable, crushing pain when she found out the man she slept with was two-timing her.

Then he had a great idea.

~ ~ ~

Amber Lewis was in the zone. She had her fave TV show,
Zombie Bonanza
, on DVD in the background while she painted with watercolors on a canvas she’d prepared the night before with a swirling, pale blue background. She applied wet paint on wet paint to achieve a suffused color of yellow and red mixing together. Today she painted fire—flames shooting across the canvas, highlighted by the pale blue. She mostly created abstracts and considered herself a watercolor artist first, an elementary school art teacher second. The latter by necessity.

She added a few flaring finishing touches and leaned back to take it in. Not bad. She’d add it to next week’s listing on eArt. She hadn’t sold a single piece off the independent artists’ website, but she was always hopeful that one day her work would be appreciated, and she’d be on her way to financial independence.

She stood and stretched her back, noticing some small papers lying on the floor by the front door. That was odd. She walked over to investigate. They were coupons. Ten percent off frozen yogurt at The Dancing Cow. She’d heard of the fro-yo place at the edge of town though she’d never stopped by. She’d heard it was overpriced, and on her teacher’s salary, she contented herself with occasional binges of ice cream at Shane’s Scoops. It must’ve been some sales guy sticking these under everyone’s door.

She went to throw them out, and one of the coupons fluttered to the ground. She squatted down and picked it up. There was a picture of a guy in a cow costume, and for some reason he looked familiar. She studied it. What a geek! Dressing up like a cow. Wait a minute. She did know this guy. It was her new neighbor across the hall. She headed across the hall, intending to introduce herself and then explain she didn’t appreciate him littering her floor with advertisements.

She knocked on his door, and a moment later it swung open. The man—tall, lean, and wearing a green Hawaiian shirt—beamed at her.

“Pink Hair!” he exclaimed.

She found herself smiling back. With his rumpled, in-need-of-a-haircut, dirty blond hair, brown eyes, stubble, and lopsided smile, he was appealing in a boy-next-door kind of way. Which was perfect since he was literally next door.

“Amber Lewis,” she said. “Got the coupons.” She held them up.

He nodded and smiled. “Good, good. Stop by anytime. The fro-yo is healthy and full of pro-bee-otics.”

“Probiotics, you mean.”

“No, no, it’s pro-bee-otics.”

“Barry, right?”

He smiled again, and laugh lines formed around his eyes. “That’s right.”

She hated to bust his happy little bubble, but the man couldn’t even pronounce what he was advertising. “You’re mispronouncing probiotics. Look it up. You’ll see.”

He cocked his head. “Well, no one’s ever said anything before. I’ve been running the shop for a year now.”

She grimaced. “Sorry to bear bad tidings. Speaking of which, don’t slip any more coupons under my door. Our building has a no-soliciting policy.”

“Oh, I wasn’t soliciting. I only gave them to you.”

“To me? Why?”

“I thought maybe you’d like some fro-yo.”

“I like ice cream.”

“But you haven’t tried mine yet, have you?” His eyes met hers, warm and friendly. “I definitely would’ve remembered you coming into the shop.”

She slipped into flirty mode easily. “Oh, really? Why is that?”

“Because you’re so…I mean—” He gestured to her hair. “Who could miss those pink streaks?”

She tossed her hair over her shoulder, enjoying messing with him. He was flustered and becoming an interesting shade of pink himself. “What do you think of a girl with pink streaks?”

He straightened. “Oh, well…I think she’s either an artist or…
mutter, mutter, mutter
.”

“Didn’t catch the end of that sentence.”

“Er, into some pretty funky stuff.”

She jutted out a hip. “Funky as in…”

He stared at her hip, then his gaze traveled to the floor. “Er…”

She was suddenly annoyed. “What?”

“I’d rather not say.” He shook his head. “I was wrong. Very wrong.”

“What? Prostitute? Druggie?”

He waved his hand. “No, no. Nothing like that.” His eyes told a different story.

She lifted her chin. “I’m a watercolor artist.”

He nodded. “Yes, I would’ve guessed that right away about you. Artist. For sure.”

She took a step back. “Well, nice to meet you, Barry.”

“Wait! Can I see your art?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Is that some kind of pickup line?”

“No, I’m actually very interested. I have a lot of respect for artists.”

She stared him down.

He cleared his throat. “Besides, I know you’re with Tattoo Guy.”

“Rick. His name is Rick.”

He nodded gamely.

And because it was very rare for anyone to ever ask about her art, she found herself agreeing.

“Wait here,” she said.

She headed back to her place and brought back her favorite canvas, the one that had been on eArt for a year now for the bargain price of a hundred fifty bucks and still hadn’t sold. It was a dragon, serpentine and breathing flames, on a hazy lavender background. When she opened her door, he was standing in the hallway waiting.

“Oh, just come in,” she said, waving him in. “You’re not a serial killer, right?”

“My mother raised me not to be a serial killer, I swear. Right after eat your veggies, it was”—he raised his voice to a falsetto—“don’t be a serial killer, Barry.” He stepped inside. “I can give you her number if you don’t believe me.”

She laughed. “We’ll skip the parental conversation. Here it is.”

She held her breath. It was so hard to share her work. Rick thought it was a cute little hobby. But to her, it was much more important than that. It was her soul—that inner spark needing to express itself on canvas.

He didn’t say anything at first, merely held the piece up and peered at it closely. Then he held it at arm’s length and stared at it some more. She wanted to snatch it back and tell him to forget it, but then his kind, brown eyes met hers. “It’s stunning. Amber, you are so talented. Wow. What else have you got?”

“You want to see more?”

“Yeah, if you’ve got it.”

“Of course. I keep the finished canvases in my bedroom. Oh, just come with me. You look harmless.”

“Famous last words.” He wiggled his fingers. “Look out, I might mess up the covers.”

She snorted. “Like I make my bed.”

“I didn’t suppose someone with pink hair would.”

She laughed as she led him to her bedroom. Her paintings were stacked three deep along one wall. He took his time, stopping in front of each one, studying it from different angles, murmuring responses that she soaked in like a desert parched for one drop of encouragement.

“Nicely done,” he murmured. “Angsty,” came another response, and he was right. She’d painted it after she broke up with Steve, a six-month relationship that ended when she’d found him in bed,
her
bed, with another woman. “Gorgeous,” he said about an abstract that an ex had described as a spiral made on a kids’ toy, but was one of her favorite pieces. She felt like hugging this guy.

He went through the rest of them, murmuring soft praise under his breath, and finally turned to her. “Why are you hiding all these? They should be in a gallery in SoHo.”

A rare, beaming smile crossed her face, so big it made her cheeks hurt. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m not exactly hiding them. They’re all for sale on eArt. It’s just that no one has bought them.”

He raised a brow. “How much?”

“All different prices,” she said. “All very reasonable for original art. Nothing above two hundred dollars.”

“Why not try a gallery?”

“I sent my portfolio to a few, but no takers.”

He nodded. “Well, I’m sure you’ve heard this
ad infinitum
, but your work is incredible. You should be very proud.”

She blinked back tears. “I am.” She resisted hugging him. Barely. “Would you like to stay for some coffee?”

His eyes lit up. “I’d love to.”

~ ~ ~

Barry knew he’d be up for hours with a cup of coffee, but no way was he turning down this golden opportunity to sit in Pink Hair, er, Amber’s apartment and get to know her. Her place was a mirror image of his place, but much cozier. The walls were painted with golden swirls that reminded him of an Italian restaurant, Tuscany style, he thought it was called. The living room was spare, just a purple sofa and coffee table on one side, the other side had an easel with canvases and art supplies nearby. A TV sat in the corner.

He followed her to the kitchen, trying very hard to push his fantasy of a naked Amber lounging among the floral pillows in her queen-size canopy bed out of his head. She’d look so hot there with the floral comforter and the white gauzy canopy framing her in all of her pink glory. He got hard and quickly sat at the round kitchen table with a mosaic top he was sure she’d created herself. He watched her prepare the coffee and racked his brain for conversation that didn’t involve asking why she was with a two-timing lunkhead like Rick.

“So who do you know in Clover Park?” Amber asked. “We’re all connected by six degrees of separation.”

He grinned. “Like Kevin Bacon. I’m not all that well connected. I just moved here a year ago from California.”

“What made you move here?”

“My dad died.” His throat went tight. “I came home to Eastman for the funeral and stayed for my mom.”

He still missed his dad. He was a good man, a hell of a mechanical engineer too. His parents had been close, and his dad’s death from a heart attack at seventy had been a shock to them all. His two younger brothers stopped home briefly, but they couldn’t stay long. Daniel was in military intelligence, and Ian was a grad student in computer science at M.I.T. He knew some people thought it strange for him to move home at thirty, but for him it was no big deal. He’d been in between gigs since he’d sold his app, and his mom had been in bad shape. It was a hard year of mourning for her, and he’d done what he could to make it better. He knew she was doing okay when she told him to go ahead and find his own place.

Amber cocked her head. “I’m sorry.”

He put up a hand. “It’s okay. How about you? Who do you know?”

She plopped into the seat next to him. She had blue eyes the color of the sea. “I teach art at Clover Park Elementary, so I know all the teachers, all the kids, K through five, and all the parents. I’m close with Daisy O’Hare. You know her? Her sister, Liz, works with me, but Daisy and I really hit it off.”

He brightened. “Sure I know her. I spend a good amount of time at her parents’ restaurant.”

“Yeah, everyone knows Garner’s. So how’d you get into the fro-yo business?”

He shook his head. “Thought it’d be fun. It is. Fro-yo bars were really big in California. I just saw an opportunity here and ran with it. It’s definitely more fun than what I used to do—software engineering.”

“That does sound more fun.”

“I develop apps on the side.” He shrugged. “Just a hobby.”

“Yeah? Anything I might know?”

“Have you heard of Giggle Snap?”

“I love Giggle Snap! So fun! That was you?”

He beamed. “Yeah, that was me.”

“Awesome! What other apps have you made?”

“That was the first. I’ve been noodling around with another one for bird watchers.” He waved that away. “I won’t bore you with all the gory details.”

“I love gory details.”

He raised a brow. “Yeah?”

She nodded encouragingly.

“Well…” He checked in with her again, and she smiled. She was
so
pretty. “It’s basically a database with information for a bird, like its relative size, color of plumage, shape of bill. It helps you figure out what bird species it could be from a narrowed-down selection. You know, since so many birds match similar descriptions.”

“Sort of like a field guide.”

“Yes!” He pointed at her. “Smart lady.”

She grinned.

“But then I take it a step further. You can take a picture of the bird with your phone and match it that way, or if it’s not in the guide, add it as an alternate match. It would help with conservation efforts to have that kind of shared information at our fingertips. Oh, and you can also tap on a bird picture and hear the bird’s song. That, of course, is going to take a while to program. A lot of data points, plus accounting for new data being fed in by end users, but I thought it worthwhile.”