Little Secrets: Unexpectedly Pregnant

If she saw the many sketches of her she’d definitely think he was a psycho and go running for the hills.

Sage looked up at the pipes running across the ceiling and the massive wooden beams that contrasted with the redbrick walls. Her eyes focused on a massive wooden propeller he’d hung on the far wall and her lips quirked. “I love this… This is you. This is your space. Masculine and minimalistic.”

And so very different from her light-filled, pink-tinged, feminine space. If they ever ended up living together, how would they…

Whoa there, cowboy, cool your jets. You decided not to go there, remember? You were going to wait until your brain was functioning properly before you made any life-changing, crazy-ass decisions.

Take a breath, dude. And another…

He focused on making coffee, decaf, of course, then realized he needed something a lot stronger than coffee. He poured a mug for Sage, then reached for a bottle of whiskey and dropped a healthy amount into a glass. Sipping, he felt the burn in his throat, the warmth in his stomach, and his heart slowed down, his lungs opening to allow more air to flow inside. Yeah, that was more like it.

Sage looked around, her eyebrows raised. “So, where’s your studio? Where do you paint?”

He’d known she’d ask and instead of blowing her off, as he’d intended to do, he gestured to the door in the corner of the loft. “It’s on the other side of the building. Through that door is a catwalk that takes you there.”

Sage’s eyes lit up. “Can I see it?”

He wanted to say no but he’d just told her that they needed to be honest with each other. Nodding, he walked across the room to open the door onto the gangway. Taking Sage’s mug from her, he held her coffee and his whiskey and gestured for her to step out. Sage stepped onto the narrow walkway and looked down at his workbenches and equipment below. He’d just started a new sculpture and pieces of half-bent steel and wood lay scattered across the concrete floor. “What’s that going to be?”

Tyce shrugged. “Not sure yet. I’m still waiting for it to make sense.”

Sage nodded. Because she was an artist herself, he didn’t need to explain the creative process to her, that he was following his instincts, trusting that it would all work out in the end.

“God, it’s cold up here,” Sage said, wrapping her arms around herself.

“The warehouse is a bitch to heat but I’m normally doing some sort of physical activity down there, either working on a sculpture or working out, so I don’t notice it much. The studio is heated.”

They’d reached the door that led to his most private space and Tyce took a deep breath as Sage opened the door. “The light switch is on the left.”

Sage flipped the switch and light filled the messy room. Tyce handed Sage her mug, took a sip of his whiskey and wondered what she—the first person to step into this space—thought. He looked around, trying to see the familiar setting through new eyes. The windows were incredible, leaded panes letting in every bit of light and shelves held paints and brushes and trowels. Blank canvases were stacked against one wall and there was a half-finished, shades-of-blue abstract taking up the space opposite. Sage looked at the oil for a long time, sipping her coffee before glancing down at the stack of canvases facing the wall. Ah, crap. Well, what had he thought would happen?

“May I?”

Tyce nodded and she immediately sank to the floor, placing the mug by her knee and flipping the first canvas around. He squinted at the charcoal-and-ink sketch and let out a sigh of relief; it was a portrait of Lachlyn, her nose buried in a book. Sage said nothing and turned another canvas around and Tyce sucked in his breath. His mother was lying on the floor next to her bed, her knees pulled up, her eyes vacant.

“She looks a little like Lachlyn… Is this your mom?” Sage asked, glancing up.

Tyce nodded. “Yeah, as I mentioned, she suffered from chronic depression. She’d stay like that for days.”

Sage thankfully didn’t comment. She just flipped through the portraits, wrinkling her nose when she came across the one of her working at her bench. She looked at the date and lifted her eyes to his, her eyebrows raised. Tyce felt his cheeks warm. “I saw a photo of you in a magazine. I decided to copy it.”

Still no comment. Tyce felt ants crawling up his skin as she flipped through the portraits, many of which were of her. After examining the last one, she rested her forearms on her knees.

He saw the anger in her eyes when all that blue slammed into his. “Why the hell have you never exhibited these? They are so good, Tyce, possibly even better than your sculptures and your oils. They are emotional and, sometimes, hard to look at but so damn real!”