Jackson and Lexi arrived for dinner right on time. So frustrating. I had attempted to get there early, but only managed to show up on time as well. There was no opportunity for just the two of us to talk. Maddening. The meal was amazing. Lupita had really outdone herself with the food. Given that microwavable ramen had become my go-to dinner, her homemade guacamole with pomegranate seeds, chicken and cream cheese taquitos, and machaca beef with fresh tortillas and homemade salsa were to die for. We had margaritas on the side, but I stopped myself at two, not wanting to risk making an ass of myself.

I noted that Nick wasn’t using his wheelchair. In fact, it had been parked out of the room. He didn’t get up and move very often, preferring to sit on the couch after dinner, and I suspected it was all part of his effort not to let Lexi know that there was something wrong with him. While we enjoyed dessert, homemade flan, and coffee, and discussed the possible art for his walls, I realized I wanted, quite desperately, to be alone with him.

I wanted him to look at me the way he had that night, the one where he caught me in his arms and saved me from being crushed to death by the free weights. Yes, it had taken on that soft focus romantic glow in hindsight, erasing the details that my skirt had been ripped open and he’d been covered in sweat from his workout. Sue me.

He hadn’t looked at me in anything more than a perfunctory way ever since, his gaze friendly but distant. I wanted the intensity back. I wanted the zip and sizzle. I wanted him to notice me, thus, I stayed at two margaritas lest I do something desperate for his attention like strip down to my undies and cannonball into the pool. Impulse control not being my strength. So yay me for not doing that. Yet.

“You could go with some Arizona art,” Lexi said. “Something that pulls together your color scheme but evokes a certain feeling.”

Jackson gave her side-eye. “His color scheme?” He gestured to the room. “Black, gray, and white. That’s all we’ve got going on here.”

Lexi tapped her spoon to her lips as she considered. “Ansel Adams. An enormous print of his White House Ruin, Canyon de Chelly, would be amazing on the big wall. It’s Arizona, it’s historical, and you have the space. Back me up, Annabelle.”

“You can never go wrong with Ansel Adams,” I said. I stared at the big blank wall. “Unless, you want to bust out and have some color. There are so many amazing Arizona artists, like Jimmy Todd or Frederick Sommer. Or if you want a contemporary, how about Silent Soliloquy by Dorothy Fratt? She was an Arizona artist and I just love her work.”