All the Feels (Spoiler Alert #2)(12)

Fort Lauderdale. St. Augustine. And one memorable time, Miami.

They’d stayed in a cheap motel on the outskirts of the area to save money, but ventured into the heart of the vibrant city itself during the still, humid mornings, before the inevitable storm clouds rolled in every afternoon.

In an art museum there, they’d chanced upon a special exhibit. One of Picasso’s portraits, on loan for a month. At the time, he’d been seven or eight, maybe. Not yet medicated, so he tore through that museum like one of the region’s famous, terrifying hurricanes, randomly checking off an item or two on the children’s scavenger hunt list he’d been given at the entrance, but mostly just wreaking havoc and screeching.

Until he’d seen the Picasso and stopped dead.

That portrait—it didn’t look like any he’d ever seen before. It had mottled colors. Mismatched features. Jutting angles and deliberate, defiant asymmetry.

The woman in that portrait wasn’t beautiful. But beauty wasn’t the point.

He’d hyperfocused on that painting. When his mom tried to persuade him to move on, he’d whined until she gave up and let him stare at it a little longer.

Lauren’s face drew his attention the same way.

But in the mid-morning sunlight, the bags under her eyes were more evident, the lines bracketing her mouth and furrowing her forehead more distinct.

She looked tired and stressed. From lingering jet lag and the prospect of more travel to come? The strain of watching over him?

“I’m getting some food,” she said abruptly, and jolted up from her chair.

Before he could follow her, a man in a suit appeared and asked for an autograph. As Alex made the usual casual conversation—yes, he was that actor; thank you so much for your kind words; no, he wasn’t able to reveal anything about the last season—he kept track of Lauren in his peripheral vision.

She’d piled cheese and grapes and some sort of potato dish on her plate, and it all looked much better than the apple he’d grabbed on the way to their seats. So as soon as he finished with the fan, he joined her in front of the display of small sandwiches and omelettes, where she’d been standing for at least a couple of minutes.

Her vague gaze didn’t waver from the serrano ham and Manchego offering. She didn’t pay him a lick of attention.

Finally, he reached past her and selected a sandwich with tongs, placing it on his small, white plate. Then, with a shrug, he grabbed a second one too—because dried ham and cheese and aioli, yum—and turned to her.

“Are you attempting to obtain your sandwich via telekinesis?” He waved a hand in front of her eyes. “Or simply asleep on your feet?”

She started. “Oh. Sorry. Just thinking.”

With a quiet sigh, she claimed the tongs from him and got her own sandwich.

The two of them hadn’t really stood side by side for any significant amount of time before. They were usually either sitting or in motion or at a distance from one another.

Holy fuck, she was even shorter up close and unmoving.

“Hey, Lauren.” He watched as she transferred a small chorizo omelette to her plate. “When we stand next to each other, we look like we’re illustrating a nursery rhyme or fairy tale.”

She slammed her plate down on the counter with a distinct crack, and he jumped a little.

“Is that a Jack Sprat reference?” Her soft jaw was set, those astounding green eyes hot with anger. “If so, I’d really appreciate an attempt to restrain your asshole tendencies, at least until we get back to L.A.”

Jack Sprat? What the fuck?

He racked his memory, but—

Jack Sprat could eat no fat. His wife could eat no lean.

“Or am I the troll under the bridge, while you’re the golden prince?” Splotchy color bloomed on her cheeks, and she snatched up her plate and marched toward their chairs. “Either way, stow it, Woodroe.”

She thought he was making fun of her weight or calling her ugly. And for the first time in their brief acquaintance, she didn’t look calm at all. She looked murderous and—edgy. Distressed.

Shit. Now he couldn’t even taunt her about using an obscenity in front of children. At least, not until he tried to explain himself better.

In her seat, she’d angled herself away from him and toward the window, and he refused to speak to the back of her head. After a moment of thought, he set his plate on a nearby table and dragged his own chair in front of hers, close enough that their knees almost touched when he sat down again.

He ducked his head to catch her eye, with no success. “Normally, I’m loath to defend myself from charges of assholery, as they’re typically well warranted.”

“They would be,” she muttered.

“I only meant that you seem even shorter up close, when we’re both standing. That’s all.” He waited until her suspicious gaze slowly, slowly rose to meet his. “I swear, Lauren.”

At long last, she inclined her head in acknowledgment and let out a slow breath.

When she spoke, her voice was heavy with fatigue. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

For once, he didn’t leap to fill the silence, and he was rewarded for his restraint.

“I didn’t sleep well. I mean, I never sleep well these days, but I especially didn’t sleep well last night.” Her small hand swept toward the runway, where a commuter jet was racing down the asphalt and poised to take flight. “I hate flying.”