Worthy.
Loved.
All for who I am, entirely and without exception—by a man who is all those things and more.
21
JT
One year later…
“Keep your eyes closed,” I say, my hands still cupped over Anya’s face as we make our way down the narrow hallway to the attic, with her back to my front. Even though I’m behind her, I know she’s trying to peek and it’s all I can do not to emphasize my point by taking one hand away and swatting her on the ass.
“They’re closed,” she protests. “Just like they were when we came up those stairs. That’s why I tripped. Because my eyes are closed.”
“I can feel your eyelashes fluttering.”
“That’s because you’re so strong. Such a strong, strong man. I can’t help but flutter my eyelashes, even when my eyes are closed.”
Again, the urge to give her a nice slap on that round ass of hers is calling me, but I resist. We’re seconds away from me being able to show her how I’ve spent the last two weeks and I’m not about to ruin the reveal now.
“Also, I hate to break it to you but I already know we’re in the attic,” she mutters. “I don’t know what you want to show me up here. Attics are nothing but a place where cheap Christmas decorations go to die. Our attic will be no different.”
I let out a snort but inside my heart feels like it’s about to bust out of my chest. All because she just said the word our. Our attic, in our house, surrounded by our things.
We closed on the house two weeks ago, a few days before our one year anniversary and just before the end of Anya’s time in the Fenton program. Cramming all of those things into the same month means that we’ve barely had a chance to breathe, let alone settle into our new place. Anya’s closing show at the Fenton gallery was this past weekend and she spent the following week packing up her cottage at the ranch. Tonight will be the first night we’ve officially spent here, together, with all of our belongings in the same place. And while most of our stuff is still in boxes in the garage, that’s only because there are still repairs to be done and rooms to be painted before we move everything inside.
The house is definitely a fixer upper but that’s exactly what we—and our finances—agreed on buying when we started shopping for a place. Neither of us wanted more than we can afford and even with Anya’s growing art sales and my promotion, we still had to focus on smaller places that needed some love. But since love is something we’re never going to be short on, we didn’t bat an eye at this sweet little run-down bungalow in an older neighborhood near the university. It needs new flooring, a new roof, plenty of paint, and a complete kitchen renovation—but on the upside, the yard is in great shape. Even better, the yard is the perfect size. I can mow it in under an hour and then drink a beer on the porch, just like I dreamed about doing once I was back on my feet again.
But the attic is what I’ve really been working on while Anya’s been busy these past weeks. It’s my welcome home gift to her and it’s been all I can do not to spoil the surprise before it was finished. We pause outside the door and I give her another lecture on keeping her eyes closed, then drop of my hands so I can swing the door open. I urge her forward a few more feet so we’re inside, then step out from behind her and walk over to the window at the front so I can see her face.
“Okay,” I say, “You can open your eyes.”
She smiles and then slowly lets her eyelids rise. Her mouth drops open almost immediately and she starts to sputter and mumble things that sound appreciative, yet somehow can’t quite form any actual sentences as she takes in the room around her.
It’s an art studio just for her, with new overhead lighting, two long worktables, shelving for her supplies, and plenty of space for all of her easels. Somewhere along the history of this house someone must have used the attic as a playroom, so there was the most horrifying waterfall mural painted on one wall, but after three coats of fresh paint, that’s only a memory now. The entire space is bright and clean, with lots of room for Anya to spread out while she creates. Chris and I even managed to wrestle a couch inside, although that task involved two stubbed toes, one damaged door jamb, and a lot of cussing and name-calling. It also cost me a six-pack of the craft beer Chris likes and I had to listen to him talk for an hour straight about his new favorite cooking shows, but it was worth it. Now I can come up here to watch Anya work whenever it feels right.
And based on the pleased look on her face, the entire project was worth it. She swings her stunned gaze around the room one more time before fixing it on me. “When did you have time to do this?”
“Before work, after work. Then Chris helped me finish up the weekend before last.”
“It’s amazing. I don’t even know what to say, I…” Her words trail off and her eyes start to turn watery.
I clear the room and take her in my arms, sliding my hands up to cup her cheeks. “Say you love it. That’s enough.”
A few tears spill over and cascade down her cheeks as she nods. “I love it.”
There are some more tears, some kissing, and then a thank you. After taking a deep breath, though, she suddenly props her hands on her hips and sends me a slightly pissed off scowl.
“What?” I ask. “You don’t like something? We can change it around however you want. Nothing’s permanent.”
She shakes her head. “No, that’s no it. It’s still perfect. It’s just that you kind of stole my thunder here. I had a housewarming present for you and now I’m feeling like it’s not going to be nearly as good as this.” I try to protest, telling her I’m going to love whatever it is. She huffs and heads for the stairs. “Come on then. No need to close your eyes, I’m not that dramatic. I won’t even try to be mysterious either. We’re going out to the shed.”
We end up in the backyard where a shed that came with the house is sitting in a far corner of the lot. I haven’t put anything in it since we moved in because the structure is so old it’s about to fall down. Tearing it out and getting rid of it is on the mile-long renovation list, but nowhere near the top. Anya takes me by the hand and leads us over there, then waves toward the doors.
“It’s a lawnmower,” she announces before I’ve even gotten the doors open.
I let out a laugh. “You are terrible at surprises. Where’s the buildup? The drama of a big reveal? A man enjoys some anticipation, you know.”
“Apparently you’ve forgotten that I’m the same woman who asked you to have sex with me less than an hour after meeting you. Clearly, I’m not into building anticipation.” She points at her gift. “I was worried that this is the equivalent of giving your wife a new vacuum but you really seem to enjoy mowing the lawn. And that hand-me-down mower your dad gave us is pretty rough. Now we have one that’s shiny and new.”
I give the mower a long look, admiring exactly how shiny and new it is, then cut Anya a side glance. “How did you swing this? Because if you had to stretch things to make it happen, you shouldn’t have. I love it but we don’t need it.”