Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mason
Four days. I’d managed to avoid Caleb for nearly four days since our discussion at lunch, though “avoid” wasn’t quite the right word. I’d answered his texts with polite brevity. I’d nodded when we passed on the stairs. I’d maintained the careful distance I’d promised myself I needed.
But God, I missed him.
The Friday crowd had thinned after the usual lunch rush, leaving only a couple browsing the travel section and a regular in the corner armchair, lost in a mystery novel.
“Emma?” I called to the back room. “Can you watch the front for a bit? I’m going to take a late lunch.”
She appeared, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sure, no problem.” Observant as always, she studied my face. “You okay?”
“Fine.” I grabbed my jacket. “Just need some air.”
Outside, the breeze carried the scent of salt and seaweed. I had no destination in mind, but my feet seemed to know where they wanted to go. Before I could talk myself out of it, I was walking toward the Coastal Light Gallery.
Through the large glass door, I could see a few patrons examining Beaumont’s abstracts. And there was Caleb, his trim figure moving gracefully among the displays, answering questions.
My heart stuttered at the sight of him. Even from a distance, he was striking—the strong line of his jaw, his squared shoulders beneath a charcoal-gray suit, the way he gestured with those expressive hands when explaining a piece. He looked like he belonged there, among beautiful things.
Before I could lose my nerve, I pushed open the door. Caleb turned and froze momentarily when he saw me. Surprise registered on his face, followed by a cautious smile that made my gut tighten.
He excused himself from the patron he’d been helping. “Mason.” He stepped toward me, hesitant. “This is unexpected.”
“I was just…taking a walk,” I said lamely. “Thought I’d see what you’ve done with the Beaumont exhibition.”
His smile widened, genuine now. “I’d love to show you around.”
The next half-hour passed in a strange dance of professional courtesy and underlying tension.
Caleb guided me through the exhibition, explaining Beaumont’s evolution as an artist, pointing out details of technique I would have missed.
I found myself watching his face more than the artwork—the way his eyes lit up when discussing a piece he particularly loved, the subtle movements of his expressions.
We hadn’t been this close in days. Standing beside him, I caught the familiar scent of his amber and sandalwood cologne. The same scent that had lingered on my mother’s afghan after our binge-watch of the TV series. I had to resist the urge to lean closer and sniff.
“This arrangement is different from when I first saw it.” I gestured to a series of smaller works by another artist.
“I’ve been experimenting with groupings,” he admitted. “Mary Anne usually arranges by chronology, but I think thematic connections can be more powerful.”
There was something in his voice when he mentioned Mary Anne—a slight hitch that caught my attention. Before I could question it, an older couple approached with questions about pricing.
“Let me just help them, and then we can talk more privately. I need to tell you something,” Caleb whispered. “Wait in the office?”
I nodded, making my way to the small room at the back of the gallery. It was meticulously organized yet showed signs of Caleb’s presence—a sketchbook on the desk, a French art magazine open to an article about contemporary painting, a half-empty mug of coffee.
When Caleb entered a few minutes later, he closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a moment before coming to sit in the chair across from me.
“I’ve missed you,” I said before I could stop myself.
His eyes, warm and brown, met mine. “I’ve missed you, too.”
The simple admission hung between us, fragile and hopeful.
“Have you made your decision?” I asked, unable to dance around the subject any longer. “About the Louvre?”
Caleb nodded, his expression serious. “I’m turning it down.”
The words sent a shock through me—relief, confusion, and something dangerously close to hope. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” His voice was steady, certain. “I don’t want to go back to Paris.”
“But your sabbatical ends in what, five months? What will you do then?” The practical questions tumbled out before I could stop them. “Your contract with Mary Anne is temporary, right?”
Caleb was quiet for a moment, his hands fidgeting slightly with a paperclip from the desk. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” he said finally. “Mary Anne offered to sell the gallery to me.”
The words didn’t register at first. When they did, I felt as though the floor had dropped out from beneath me.
“She… What?”
“She’s been considering retirement, and I’d like to stay in Seacliff Cove.” His eyes never left mine. “Permanently.”
“When did she tell you this?” My voice sounded strange to my ears.
“She floated the idea on Tuesday.” He leaned forward, his expression earnest. “And we came to an agreement yesterday. I spoke with a loan officer this morning.”
I tried to process this information, this possibility I hadn’t allowed myself to consider. “And if they approve it?”
“There’s paperwork, legal issues to sort out…” His hands moved expressively as he spoke. “But it could work, Mason. I could stay.”
“If the loan falls through?” My gut clenched.
Caleb took a deep breath. “Then I’ll figure something else out. I’m not going back to Paris.”
The certainty in his voice made my heart race. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”
“I didn’t want to get your hopes up until I spoke with the bank,” he said, his voice quiet. “And I did that this morning. I was going to tell you this evening.”
A laugh escaped me, half incredulous, half joyful. “Too late.”
“What?”
“It’s too late not to get my hopes up,” I clarified, feeling the walls I’d so carefully constructed begin to crumble. “You’re really doing this? Buying a gallery in a small coastal town when you could be at the Louvre?”
“I’m really doing this.” He stood and moved around the desk to stand before me, close enough that I had to tilt my head down slightly to maintain eye contact. “I’m taking a leap of faith.”
Something broke loose inside me then—all the fear and hope and longing I’d been holding back for days, for years. I reached for him, pulling him close until our lips met. His arms wrapped around me immediately, as if he’d been waiting for this moment.
This kiss differed from our others—not tentative like our first reconnection, not urgent like during the storm. This was certainty, promise, the future. His cologne enveloped me, familiar and intoxicating. When we finally broke apart, I kept my hands on his shoulders, unwilling to let him go.
“A leap of faith,” I repeated, my voice rough with emotion.
His smile lit his entire face, transforming his features into something real and precious. “For you,” he said simply. “For us.”
For the first time in eleven years, I allowed myself to imagine a future with him—not just days or weeks, but years. A lifetime.
It was terrifying. It was exhilarating.
It was worth the risk.
Two weeks had felt like both an eternity and a heartbeat. The days had blurred together in a strange mix of anxiety and joy as Caleb and I circled each other, growing closer while trying not to focus on the uncertainty still hanging over us.
We’d fallen into a routine—coffee in the mornings at Tides & Tales before opening, shared lunches when our schedules allowed, while talking about everything and nothing, nights tangled together in bed.
It felt like we were rebuilding something precious piece by piece, yet always with the awareness that the foundation wasn’t quite secure.
The loan approval loomed over everything.
Caleb didn’t mention it, but I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand would slip into his pocket when Mary Anne called, the slight furrow in his brow when he checked his email.
We were both trying not to think about what would happen if it fell through.
My apartment felt different now that Caleb was a regular visitor.
Books he’d bought stood in neat stacks on the coffee table.
A sketchbook sometimes appeared and disappeared.
A spare toothbrush had taken up residence in my bathroom.
Small markers of his presence that made my heart squeeze every time I noticed them.
I was arranging books on my shelves—a task to keep me busy—when the knock came. Three quick raps, familiar now. My pulse quickened as I crossed the room to open the door.
Caleb stood on the landing, his expression unreadable. His sweater and pants were impeccable, as always, but his hair looked like he’d been running his fingers through it repeatedly. He seemed both exhausted and vibrating with energy.
“It’s done,” he said simply.
My breath caught. “The sale?”
“Oui. Just signed the paperwork.” A smile broke across his face, transforming it completely. “Mary Anne and I closed the deal.”
Joy surged through me, so powerful it felt like electricity in my veins. I reached for him, pulling him into the apartment and into my arms in one movement.
“You did it,” I whispered against his neck. “You really did it.”
His arms tightened around me. “I can hardly believe it myself.”
When we pulled apart, his hands were trembling. For all his confident exterior, this was monumental—he’d just committed himself to a business, to a town, to a life here. To us.
“Are you terrified?” I asked, leading him to the couch.
He laughed, a slightly shaky sound. “Completely. I just signed away more money than I’ve ever seen in my life, for a gallery in a small coastal town, when I could be at the Louvre.” He shook his head. “By any objective measure, it’s insane.”
“Second thoughts?” My heart squeezed with sudden anxiety.
“Not even for a second.” His expression softened as he reached for my hand. “This is where I want to be.”
The certainty in his voice made my throat tight with emotion. I leaned in to kiss him, trying to pour all my feelings into the connection. “Let’s celebrate,” I whispered, a breath away from his lips. “Fuck me, Caleb.”
He shook his head. “No.”