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Otis studies my face. “You mean that?”

“I do. And”—I bite my lip—”I hope you feel the same. But if you want to go, I won’t stop you.”

“So you’re telling me you want me to call that landlord back and cancel the appointment? That you want me to stay here. Indefinitely.”

I nod. “Yes. It was your home first anyway.”

His fingers close around mine. “Pretty sure the deed says otherwise.”

“I don’t care whose name is on the deed. This is our home.”

He picks up his phone and dials a number.

“It’s Otis again. About tomorrow, I’m not going to need the place after all,” he says without taking his eyes off me.

There’s a muffled response on the other end.

“Yeah. Something like that,” he says with a smile and hangs up like he didn’t just make a decision that changes everything. Not because he can’t find somewhere else to live or because I gave him more time. He had somewhere else to go, and he turned it down because I asked him to stay here with me.

Because I… God, I can hardly believe what I’m about to say.

“I love you, Otis.”

He pushes his chair back so abruptly that it clatters to the floor. I let out a small squeal as he scoops me up in his arms and kisses me.

“I love you too, Romy.”

I wrap my arms around his neck. “I’m so happy you’re staying.”

He grins. “You do realize you’re never getting rid of me, right?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Chapter Twelve

Otis

I’m supposed to be fixing the sagging porch steps, but instead, I’ve been watching Romy paint for the past twenty minutes.

She set up her easel by the window in the living room after breakfast and has barely moved since. There’s paint on her fingers and a streak of something blue on the sleeve of her shirt. Every few minutes, she leans back to look at the portrait before moving closer again to add something. I still don’t understand how she does it. Honestly, it’s like watching a magician work.

The woman on the canvas came by yesterday afternoon. I only saw her for a few minutes before heading out to the shed, but I recognize her immediately. Romy hasn’t just painted her face. Somehow, she’s managed to capture the way she smiles too.

“You’re staring at me while I’m working. It’s distracting,” Romy says without looking away from the canvas.

“I’m looking at the painting.”

“Sure you are,” she says with a laugh.

I walk farther into the room and stop behind her. The portrait looks finished to me, but Romy adds another tiny brushstroke near the woman’s eye before sitting back again.

“Are you finished for today?” I ask.

“Almost.” She turns her head and smiles at me. “Unless you’ve finally changed your mind and want to be next.”

I grunt, but I don’t immediately tell her no like I usually do. I’ve watched her paint several people since she moved in. I’ve seen how excited they are when she shows them the finished portrait and how she somehow finds something in every one of them that I would never have noticed.

Romy turns back to the canvas, apparently taking my silence as another refusal.