“Are you going to let me see it?” I ask.

“Once we’re inside.”

The door clicks, releasing the lock, and when I push it open, the voice of an announcer mentioning a two-one count carries out of the room and into the hall. Echo wrinkles her nose, possibly having forgotten about our guests. “Or not.”

“You want me to put it back in the car?”

“It needs to dry. I should have left it at the gallery, but I was too excited for you to see it.”

And neither Echo nor I were eager for me to visit the gallery so she brought it to me. I hold the door open for her and Echo heads in.

“S’up, Echo,” Isaiah calls. His heavy combat boots hang off the side of the bed. When I come into view, he tips his chin at me. “Noah.”

“Hi, Isaiah! Hey, Beth.”

Beth lies on the bed next to Isaiah in the opposite direction. In her tank top and with her black hair falling over one shoulder, Beth is sprawled on her stomach with her feet bent in the air and her chin resting on her folded hands. She’s completely absorbed in the game. When Beth says nothing in return, Echo tries again. “Who’s winning?”

“I don’t have a fucking clue nor do I fucking care.”

Echo’s head ticks back.

“Back off, Beth.” I cross the room, drop a kiss on the curve of Echo’s neck and whisper in her ear, “She’d rip me to pieces, too, right now. She’s a bitch when the Yankees play.”

Her eyebrows rise. “Is she a Red Sox fan?”

Isaiah chuckles and we both throw him a glare, but he doesn’t notice as he’s absorbed in a car manual.

“Beth hates baseball.”

Echo’s eyes dart from Beth to the television to me then she waves her hand in the air for an explanation.

“She watches,” I explain. “Yankees only. It’s what she does and there are some things we don’t question about each other.”

“Just the Yankees?” Echo whispers.

“Just the Yankees,” I repeat.

“And she hates baseball?”

“With a passion.”

“That’s...” Echo says in a hushed tone. “That’s messed up.”

“We’re all fucked up in this room, princess,” says Beth. “Get used to it.”

“Did you fall into some paint, Echo?” Isaiah asks, changing the subject.

Echo’s shoulder slumps as she pivots toward the mirror. She groans as she touches her cheek and forehead that are more red and pink than skin. “Dang it. Why am I such a mess?”

“I think it’s sexy as hell,” I say.

“I think I’m going to barf,” Beth mocks my tone.

Death radiates from the look I send her way. Enough that it should melt her. “Ever sleep in a tent, Beth?”

Beth focuses on the screen while raising her middle finger in my direction.

“Screw it.” Echo turns away from the mirror. “I need a shower.”

I smile, Echo blushes, then I laugh. Damn me for inviting Isaiah and Beth to share our room.

“Anyhow.” An excited glint strikes Echo’s eyes. “Are you ready? I hope you like it. It’s sort of...for you. But it’s not done, okay? I mean, something like this would actually take a while to perfect, so I guess I’m saying—”

“Echo.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s all good.”

“Okay.” Her fingers drum nervously over the top of the canvas before she repeats, “Okay.”

“I’m assuming that’s not the constellation Aires?”

“No. I’ll have to start on that tomorrow.” With a deep inhale, Echo pulls out a chair from the table and rests the painting on the arms and leans it against the back so it will stay upright.

Air rushes out of my body, and I sink onto our bed. It’s the same damned shock as when she drew my parents this past spring. There’s awe and joy and this ache that hits deep in my gut. I bend forward and rest my joint hands on my knees and stare at the sight in front of me.

Fuck me, my eyes burn. I shut them, attempting to get my shit together. It’s a painting. Only a painting. I reopen them, and it’s the same disorientation as a right hook to the head. It’s more than a painting, and that’s the reason my throat swells.

Last night meant as much to me as it did to her and she painted it, capturing it in a way unique to Echo. She’s right, it’s not done. It’s a skeleton compared to her other work, but I see enough to know what she desires, what she plans to design. Up close all those colors would look like chaos, but when viewed as a whole it creates this beautiful picture. In the end, that’s the best way to describe me and Echo, our relationship. Our love.

The bed dips as Echo eases onto it, settles behind me and props her chin on my shoulder. Her signature scent that reminds me of walking into a bakery becomes an invisible blanket surrounding me. “What do you think?”

“It’s us,” I whisper, and knots form in my stomach. Echo always finds a way to blow my mind. She tenses behind me and I continue, “It’s where we spent last night.”

“It is.” Echo relaxes, and her fingers curl around my biceps. “Do you like it?”

Struggling for composure, I place my hand over hers and pause. “It’s...”

I’m not Echo. I don’t have words for what happens inside me. If I did, I’d fail at describing this. I shift to rest my forehead against hers. “I don’t deserve you.”

“That’s my statement,” she says so only I can hear. “I wish we were alone again.”

I press my lips to hers, slide my hand through her hair and watch as the curls bounce back into place. “Me, too.”

If we were alone, I’d take it slow, worshipping every inch of her body. I’d work like hell for it to be her night—the night she enjoys the actual act of making love. And if it didn’t happen tonight, then I’d dedicate every night to that single pursuit.

Echo edges closer, and our lips move slowly as we both try to fight the build. There’s other people in the room. Other people.

Isaiah clears his throat. “Let’s take a walk, Beth.”

“Walks are overrated.” Odds are the Yankees are winning, and Beth’s oblivious to the world, meaning she’s in the dark about the heat radiating from Echo and me.

Echo’s hand drifts from my arm, applies pressure to my chest and places a few inches between us. She lets out a long gush of air. I understand her frustration. My body is wound tight.