Every Night (Brush of Love 1)

“I’m more than happy to do it,” I said.

“You sound surprised,” she said, giggling.

“I honestly am a bit.”

“Why’s that?” she asked.

“Eh, some people in my company don’t like that I’m still so hands-on as an owner.”

“I’ve never understood why people believe an owner isn’t hands-on,” she said.

“Exactly. And some people don’t like that I employ some of the homeless community. You know, to train them and stuff.”

“A lot of people didn’t like my art therapy when I was bouncing around cities,” she said. “You encounter people like that everywhere you go. I, personally, admire it. It’s one of the reasons why I took your deal.”

“Really? I thought it was because I was slashing the pricing in half,” I said, grinning.

“No,” she said, “though that was a perk. It was because of what you do for the homeless community, the outreach you have a passion for, that solidified it for me. I hired someone who holds the same morals I do. That’s important to me.”

I was simply i

n awe of her, and I was glad she was still staring across the street because I sure as hell wasn’t doing a good job of covering it up.

“I’ve run into a lot of people who have been down on their luck. And, while I can’t always help them, some people only need a hand to pull them up.”

I could see a darkness drift over her gaze, a sadness that crept up quickly behind her eyes. She heaved a heavy sigh again, her mind drifting back to whatever was bothering her, and now, the need to fix it only intensified in my gut.

“Sometimes they just get tired of floundering, and they need someone kind enough to reach down and be there for them,” she said.

The way she talked. The words she spoke. The way she crossed her arms around her chest and the way her eyes were misting over. She was speaking from experience. A personal struggle she was currently floundering with. Was this her way of asking me for help? Was this her way of asking me to stick my arm out so she could grab on?

Was that even appropriate, given our current relationship?

“People helped me out all through my life,” she said, taking in a deep breath. “Including my sister.”

“The one who gave you the investment,” I said.

“The one and only.”

“I had a brother,” I said

I immediately saw her tense. She caught the verbiage I’d used. It just flew out of my mouth before I could catch it.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said breathlessly.

I looked back over at her, and I saw tears cresting her eyes again. This time, her entire body had darkened. Like the weight of my sorrow was crushing her into the ground. Before I could think, I wrapped my arm around her shoulder, and she immediately curled into me like she’d been waiting for me to do it this entire time.

I cursed myself for not taking off my glove as my hand ran up and down the length of her arm.

“I haven’t struggled nearly as much as those men in that building behind me,” she said.

“Suffering is relative,” I said. “You can’t equate one person’s suffering with another.”

I wasn’t going to have an issue with her on this project. Professionally, anyway. My body seemed to be drawn to comforting her, holding her, and touching her in any way I could. That was going to be a distraction. But professionally? No. She was grateful, delighted, even, and supportive of the decisions I’d made on-site with my choice of staff. She was exactly as she appeared on the outside, a caring, sensitive artist who wanted the world to feel exactly the way she did.

Free.

Beautiful.