The Merriest Magnolia (Magnolia Sisters #2) - Michelle Major Page 0,78
on?” she asked, her awareness immediately replaced by nervous energy. She had an opportunity for sexy time and instead had offered to show him something that revealed every hidden shred of her vulnerability.
“More than anything,” he answered before she had a chance to take it back.
She swallowed down the anxiety rising up in her throat.
“Great,” she whispered. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DYLAN COULD FEEL anxiety radiating from Carrie as she led him through the front door of the bungalow a few blocks from his house.
He didn’t understand it. She knew he believed in her talent, possibly more than she did. He also understood her willingness to share this portion of herself was a gift, one he wouldn’t take for granted.
She flipped on the light, revealing a charming space filled with neutral-toned furnishings interspersed with colorful pillows, rugs and accents that lent the room an eclectic yet inviting feel. The homey living room connected to a small but functional kitchen with white cabinets, stainless-steel appliances and a small maple dining room set on one side.
“This place looks like you,” he told her with a smile.
“I used to rent Gray’s carriage house, but it felt a little too cozy once he and Avery got together. This house works for what I need just as well, although I dream of owning a place of my own one day.”
“What’s going on with your dad’s house?”
She shrugged as she placed her purse and keys on the table behind the sofa. “We’ve got to get through probate before we can sell it. I’m not sure who would buy the place at this point. It’s kind of oversize for Magnolia. Maybe a family new to town or someone who’d want to convert it to a bed-and-breakfast.”
“I still can’t believe none of you want it.” Living in that big house overlooking the rest of the neighborhood had seemed part and parcel to who Carrie was. Her father’s princess. Dylan knew the old antebellum structure had been as much a prison as a castle, but he still associated it with her.
“Not at all,” she answered without hesitation. “It’s strange but after we cleaned it out, I wanted nothing more to do with that house. In fact, I haven’t been over there in almost a month. Avery says we can deal with it once the estate is settled, but I’m not sure how involved I’ll be. It represents a time in my life that I’d prefer not to revisit.”
“Then don’t ever go back,” he told her, understanding the need to leave the past in the past. He never went near the part of town where he’d lived as a kid. There was nothing for him there but bad memories.
He turned as a cacophony of tiny meows and cries sounded from the back of the house.
“My fosters,” Carrie explained, her eyes darting to the hallway and then to him. “I need to check on them for a minute. You can wait here or else I’m using the spare bedroom—second door on the right—as my studio.”
“Okay,” he said as she walked away. He wasn’t sure which she wanted him to do but curiosity left him unable to resist heading down the hall.
He passed her bedroom and tried not to notice the intimacy of the sliver of bed he could see from the partially open door. Instead, he opened the door she’d indicated as her studio space. The room smelled of turpentine and acrylic paint, a mix of scents he’d always associated with Carrie.
She might have stopped painting for years, but she’d never quit being an artist. It was a part of her, much like her identity as Niall’s daughter.
His breath caught in his throat as he flipped on the light, and he heard her soft footsteps approach behind him as he walked into the room.
“You’ve been busy,” he said, taking in the rows of a half dozen canvases. “Do you sleep?”
“Not a lot,” she answered, her voice tight with anticipation.
“They’re stunning.”
“You don’t have to say that,” she told him, almost defensively.
“It’s true. The style is different than what you used to do.”
“I don’t even know what to call it. Something between intense impressionism and fluid realism. It’s certainly a change from the paintings I do at the store. This is just what comes out when I let myself feel. Back in high school I was so concerned with getting all the technical bits right. I thought I needed to be deliberate and methodical because that’s how my father taught me to paint. Now it’s