Built

When I hesitated he told me that he had already asked Beryl, but Joss was home sick and his mom had plans for dinner. He insisted he needed a woman’s touch to help him get things right for his son’s homecoming and I couldn’t resist, but the only place to shop that I was familiar with in Denver was Cherry Creek. As soon as we pulled into the parking lot it was clear his dirty Jeep didn’t fit in with the Mercedes and Audis littering the parking garage and our trip into Nordstrom’s had only solidified the fact that where I shopped wasn’t exactly Zeb’s cup of tea. Even if the girls who worked there liked the rugged eye candy he provided.

“There’s a Bed Bath & Beyond on the other side of the mall. I bet they have sheets with trains on them.” In hindsight we probably should have started there. The chain store was much more Zeb’s speed and more kid-friendly in general. “I told you I’m not good at decorating and stuff. I’m beige and pastel all the way.” Beige and simple colors weren’t offensive. If a color could be offensive. According to my father, it could be. According to him, everything was worth judging and finding fault with if that meant he could use it to make someone else feel poorly about what they liked or found pleasure in.

Zeb tugged me closer and dropped a kiss on the top of my head as several people moved out of our way. He commanded space and people seemed to automatically give it to him. It was impressive to watch and sent a little thrill down my spine knowing that I was fortunate enough to be the one he was making that space for.

“You only think you’re beige and pastel. You like color and you like things that are different and fun; you just hide them in places where you think no one will notice.”

I scowled a little and pulled away from him. He didn’t let me get very far. As soon as there was room between us he reached out and caught my hand in his. I couldn’t remember a single time in my whole life when anyone had held my hand. Not my father, not my mother, not Nathan . . . no one except Zeb, and it rattled me to my core. All at the same time I wanted to pull free and clutch him so tightly he would never let go. That hold I had on what I knew from before loosened even more. I was clinging by fingertips now.

“What are you talking about? Everything in my house is muted and neutral. Everything I own is a basic, plain color. Even my car is gray.”

He snorted at me and squeezed where our hands were locked together. “But I bet you a million bucks that your underwear is bright purple or blue and that your toes are painted some crazy color with a design on them. Your workout clothes are black and gray, but every single piece of them has some neon strip or some splash of color in the design. Not to mention you could’ve paid someone to cover up that red wall in your kitchen or you could’ve bought a new building or an updated home instead of sinking a fortune into restoring and customizing that old beauty. You have your own flare, Sayer. It’s subtle, but it’s there, and it’s beautiful if someone is smart enough to look for it.”

I almost pulled us both to a stop so that I could really process his words. I had never considered the little things in my life that I did just for me, for the little piece of joy they brought me, as “flare.” I considered them guilty pleasures, ones I still had a hard time believing I was getting away with, ones I was waiting for a dead man to tell me were frivolous and wasteful. I never noticed Zeb noticing them.

He tugged on my hand to get me to pick the pace back up and looked at me over his shoulder. “And don’t think for a second that I haven’t noticed that you can’t keep your hands off my ink. Not that I would ever complain about it, but most chicks like it at first and then get bored with it because it just becomes part of the scenery. Not you. It doesn’t matter how many times you see it or have your mouth on it, you always want to explore it, absorb it. You more than like color, Sayer. You savor it and worship it.”

God, did his truth undo me . . . every single time.

I blew out a deep breath and looked at him out of the corner of my eye because I could feel him watching for my reaction.

“Growing up, everything had to be just so. My father was particular about every minute detail of my life. To start off with, he always wanted a son and was disappointed I was a girl from the second I was born. That was the first in a laundry list of disappointments I burdened him with throughout my life. What I wore, how I did my hair, what kind of makeup I used, who my friends were, what my room looked like, everything was subject to his approval and nothing ever lived up to his standards. He hated everything about me and everything I did, so by the time I was ten or eleven I figured out it was easier to just keep everything bland and neutral. He had a harder time picking apart beige and cream. Ivory and black and white became staples and made it so that I could fly under his radar for the most part.” I shook my head a little as we finally reached the brightly lit store. “I carried a lot of that over into my adult life as habits, but I guess as I got older the bits and pieces of things I liked for myself worked their way into my everyday without me really noticing it.”

I gave him a lopsided grin. “And I actually really like that poppy-colored wall. I’m keeping it even after Poppy moves out.”

He let go of my hand and put a palm on my lower back as he ushered me into the store in front of him. Quietly, so that only I could hear, he asked, “What happened with your mom, Sayer? If your dad was that nasty and controlling, why didn’t she step in and stop him? Why did she stay with him? Why didn’t she protect you from him?”