12. Arden
12
ARDEN
I looked from Denver to the reporter, trying to figure out how to play this. Brutus sensed my unease and pushed against my side, assuring me that he was there and asking if I needed him. I scratched him behind the ears, trying to reassure him, but it did nothing to settle me .
My gaze swept over Sam Levine. He looked like the quintessential reporter in his mid-forties: black-framed glasses, a scruffy, slightly unkempt look as if he’d been staying up way too late to finish a story and existed on coffee alone. But I knew looks could be deceiving. The man who’d killed my parents looked as if he could’ve been seated next to us at the country club.
“Did Denver tell you that I don’t do interviews or photos?” I asked.
The man pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’m aware of your media aversion, Ms. Waverly.”
Isaiah snickered. “Dude, don’t call her that. She’ll put you on your ass.”
The reporter’s eyes widened a fraction. “What do you like to be called? ”
“Arden. Call me Arden.” The name tasted sour on my tongue because it felt like a lie. Even though it was exactly who I was now, it wasn’t who I’d been. But I sure as hell didn’t feel like a Sheridan either. Sometimes, I felt like no one at all.
“All right, Arden. Why don’t I put you on background? Nothing you say will be quoted, and I’ll make sure you aren’t in any photos,” Sam said.
He was being kind, more accepting than most reporters I came across, but I still couldn’t help the unease and anxiety. But then I thought back to my promise to myself. To live. And living meant doing things that made me happy. Like working with kids in our art program and knowing we gave them a safe place to land whenever they needed it.
My back teeth ground together as my gaze flicked to Denver. I saw pleading in his brown eyes. Even if this was partly so he could get his ego stroked, I also knew he was doing it because he cared. Because he wanted the program to succeed.
“Okay,” I muttered.
Denver rocked to the balls of his feet and clapped his hands, making countless turquoise bracelets rattle in the process. He and Lolli could go shopping together; she just went for the more bedazzled versions of his attire.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Denver hurried over to me to give me a hug but came up short at Brutus’s low growl. “Uh, I’ll just thank you from over here.”
I patted Brutus’s head. “Freund, Brutus. Freund.”
The growling instantly eased.
“Your dog speaks German?” Sam asked, his gray brows lifting.
Shit. This was why I didn’t like reporters being around. I didn’t need any information about my dog getting out. “His trainer was German,” I lied. But ole Sam would probably get even more suspicious if he knew these dogs were trained in a variety of foreign languages to keep most people from understanding their commands.
I sent Denver a pointed look.
But it was Isaiah who rescued me. “Sam, why don’t I walk you out? I know you have that interview with one of the families with kids in the afterschool program.”
“I’d love to stay for your meeting,” Sam began. “Hear about your fundraising efforts.”
“Next time,” Isaiah promised.
A time when I would be conveniently absent.
The moment Sam disappeared from sight, I whirled on Denver. “Seriously?”
His cheeks reddened. “What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal?” I asked, my frustration rising. “I told you flat out that I didn’t want to do any interviews, and you just go behind my back and ambush me?”
“Sam is here to write about the program, not you,” Denver huffed.
“Den,” Farah said, her voice completely deadpan. “You know you were hoping she would cave under pressure, and that shit isn’t cool.”
“Farah has a point,” Isaiah agreed, crossing back through the space.
The red on Denver’s cheeks deepened. “I’m just trying to make this fundraiser a success.”
“And it will be,” I argued.
“But think about how much bigger it could be if we got national attention,” Denver pressed.
My palms started to sweat. It was always an invisible equation. How much attention on my art was okay? How much was too much?
I’d turned down shows at some top galleries because they required me to be in attendance for the openings. It felt like giving away pieces of a dream in the quest for safety. Not that stuffy parties were my thing, but they might’ve been worth it.
“Denver’s just trying to help,” Hannah said softly. She hated when we fought, and artists could have fiery tempers.
“All I’m asking is that you give me a heads-up,” I said, pinning Denver with a hard stare.
He squeezed the back of his neck and sighed. “I’m sorry. I should’ve warned you so you could’ve avoided him.”
“Thank you.” I bent and unhooked Brutus’s leash since we were inside. “We should see about setting up a phone bank for the auction. That way, people who aren’t local can bid. Might come in handy if we get national attention.”
Denver stared at me for one beat, then two, before a huge grin spread across his face. “Think we could get in with that Upper East Side socialite crew?”
I tried not to let that one land. How many times had my parents talked about the new pieces of art they’d bought or ones they had their eyes on—art purchased with money that had cost them their lives? And for what?
Farah blinked at Denver a few times. “Upper East Side socialite crew? What are you, Gossip Girl?”
The two of them devolved into bickering like siblings, but Isaiah moved to my side, bumping my shoulder with his. “You okay? I can throw a fit and refuse to let any reporters be in your presence if it will help.”
I chuckled. “Thank you. But I’m okay. And it’ll be good for the auction to get some attention.”
“As long as you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” I glanced down at my watch. “Come on. Let’s get this show on the road. I have a tomato and burrata panini from The Mix Up calling my name.”
Farah smirked. “When isn’t a panini calling your name?”
“Never,” I shot back. “Because I’m smart.”
We all grabbed seats that Denver must’ve set out earlier and began working our way through tasks: music, staffing, the phone bank, show layout, and finally, food.
“I volunteer Arden as tribute,” Farah said. “She’s obviously very food motivated.”
I flipped her off. “I’m happy to tackle that. I can talk to Sutton and see if her crew at The Mix Up would be willing to cater.”
“I do love those devil’s food cupcakes,” Hannah said dreamily.
“Gotta find me a woman who looks at me like Hannah looks at devil’s food,” Isaiah muttered.
She flushed instantly and ducked her head. Hannah was the youngest of all of us at twenty-three and easily scandalized by Isaiah’s comments.
“Chocolate over men, every single time,” I muttered.
As if I’d tempted fate, the bell over the door jingled, and a man stepped inside. But not just any man. One with dark hair and hazel eyes whose broad shoulders and muscular chest were practically on display in the pale gray T-shirt he wore the hell out of.
“Why are you stalking me, Cowboy?” I growled.
“He can stalk me anytime he wants,” Farah mumbled as Hannah choked on a laugh.
I shot Farah a glare. “And what would your boyfriend say about that?”
She waggled her eyebrows at me. “Welcome to the bedroom?”
Linc chuckled. “Thanks, I think.”
Brutus, the traitor, jogged right over to him, tail wagging. Linc crouched to greet him with rubs and scratches. Brutus licked his cheek, and Linc laughed, the sound so damn beautiful.
“Holy hell. I’d lick him, too,” Farah muttered.
“Hey,” Isaiah snapped, affronted.
She leaned over and patted his cheek. “Don’t worry. You’re still my favorite nude model.”
“That’s a little better,” Isaiah huffed.
I pushed to my feet and crossed to Linc and my traitorous pup. “What are you doing here?”
He looked up at me through lashes that were too gorgeous for his own good and only seemed to accentuate the deep green in his hazel eyes. “Haven’t you heard? I’m building a house.”
“So?” I ground out.
“So…I’m going to need art for that house. Thought it would be nice to have some of it be local. Someone told me this was the place to find it.” Linc’s gaze flicked behind me, hardening a fraction as he pushed to his feet.
“Billionaires,” I muttered.
Then I felt it. Heat at my back. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Denver standing far too close. He extended a hand to Linc, his arm brushing mine in the process. “Hello. I’m Denver Wick, manager of The Collective. I’d be happy to show you around and suggest some pieces.”
“Lincoln Pierce. Thanks for the offer, but I’d just like to wander and see what grabs hold.” His gaze flicked to me and held for just a beat too long.
And in that beat, my skin heated, and my nipples pebbled, lips parting just slightly with my sharp intake of breath. It was official. My body was an idiot.
Linc’s gaze zeroed in on my mouth, registering my quick inhale, and his hazel eyes flashed a bit more gold. “Maybe you can tell me about the artists, Vicious.”
“If you don’t, I will,” Farah called from our meeting spot.
Heat flashed somewhere deep and felt alarmingly like jealousy. I knew Farah was joking; she was happily coupled up with a local mechanic. But I still didn’t like the idea of her being the one to show Linc around—to be close enough to smell his cedar and bourbon scent.
“We’re in the middle of switching over displays, so we only have a few pieces up at the moment,” I said, hoping Linc would simply go. That would be easier. Less complicated. But even just thinking that was a lie.
Linc’s gaze didn’t move from my face as if reading every thought that passed through my head. “It’ll still give me a chance to get a feel for the artists, don’t you think?”
“Sure,” I grumbled.
“We need to finish our meeting,” Denver said, his voice tight.
I glanced at my manager, taking in the tightness around his eyes. He’d normally be jumping at the chance to gain a rich patron.
“Why don’t you just piss a circle around her?” Farah called. “Might save us some time.”
Denver’s eyes flared, the brown color lightening to almost amber. “I’m just pointing out that we weren’t finished. We still need to figure out who’s handling the music for the fundraiser.”
Isaiah pushed to his feet, saving me yet again. “That’s all me, boss man.” His gaze flicked to me, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. “Lord knows we can’t put Ardy in charge of that.”
A chuckle sounded behind me. “As someone planning on attending that fundraiser, my ears thank you,” Linc said.
Isaiah barked out a laugh, then crossed to us and extended a hand. “I’m Isaiah. That wildflower queen with the red hair is Hannah, our resident watercolorist. That coffee-black-just-like-her-heart dream is Farah. She does the mixed media pieces you’ll see around here.”
Linc took Isaiah’s hand, his expression warm. “You must do the clay work.” His head inclined to a sculpture in the corner. “Bold. And damn captivating.”
“Appreciate it,” Isaiah said, releasing his grip.
Surprise lit through me. “How did you know it wasn’t one of mine?”
Linc’s gaze moved back to me. The focus made me want to squirm. “I know your art. Know its style. What it makes me feel.”
Farah reached for a few flyers from a stack and began fanning herself. “Good God, I need a cigarette.”
My mouth went dry, and the urge to reach for something to drink was so strong I only managed one word. “Oh.”
Isaiah chuckled. “This is going to be so much fun.”
I turned in his direction, pinning him with a glare that should’ve had him rethinking his words.
He held up both hands but only laughed harder. “What’d I say?”
“I’m leaving,” I muttered, pulling my keys from my pocket. “You guys have fun.”
Annoyance flickered through me, but I knew the emotion was a lie. It hid something else. Something that felt a lot like a mix of shame and hurt.
I knew my people skills were more than a little lacking. The few relationships I’d had were more like short-lived encounters or situationships, and always with people who were temporary. An artist I’d met on a retreat in Sedona. A photographer in Sparrow Falls for a month shooting wildlife. They were never invited into my spaces. My walls remained firmly intact .
It wasn’t normal, but then again, nothing about me was. That had never bothered me before. Until now.
I snapped my fingers, beckoning Brutus to follow me. He did instantly, reading my mood. I snapped his leash back on and was out the door and halfway down the walk before Linc caught up with me.
He didn’t make a move to grab me or stop my forward progress; he simply matched my steps. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lied. “Go back and look at the art. I’m sure any of them would be happy to show you around.”
My stomach twisted at the thought of any of them being the one to catch Linc’s eye. Getting close enough to bask in his light. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
“I don’t want any of them to show me around. I want to hear about the art from the woman who creates pieces that grab me by the throat and refuse to let go. Who creates work that haunts you long after you’ve looked away. Art that makes you confront the dark places inside.”
I stumbled over nothing; his words were like beautiful punches. Linc caught my elbow to steady me, and I looked up into his face, searching for some sort of deception. How could he know? How could he have plucked exactly what I wanted my art to do to people from my head?
“Okay.” It was all I could get out, but it seemed enough for Linc. He beamed like I’d just given him a puppy.
“You name the time, and I’ll be there.”
“After all the new pieces are in. But they’re ones that are going in the auction, so you’d better have your checkbook ready if you want one.”
The grin on Linc’s face only widened. “I think I can handle that.”
I let out a small scoff. “Billionaires.”
Linc barked out a laugh. “We’re the worst.”
I started walking again, Linc following on one side while Brutus walked on the other. “You said it, not me.”
“At least you know that when you take me for all I’ve got, it’ll go to a good cause.”
I couldn’t help the smile tugging at my lips. At least he was being a good sport about it all. “It is. The afterschool and summer programs here give many kids a place to go when they need it. And an outlet for everything going on in their lives.”
I felt Linc’s gaze on my face, gently probing. “The way art is an outlet for you.”
Fighting the urge to squirm, I tightened my grip on my keys, feeling the metal tines bite into my palm. “If I can give even one kid the outlet that was given to me, it’ll be worth it.”
I couldn’t resist glancing up at Linc, needing to know if he understood. His expression had softened, the green in his eyes paling just the slightest bit. “I bet you’ve given it to more than one, Arden.”
Something about him saying my name made it feel like it fit me more. Like it wasn’t a lie.
“I hope so.”
“I know so.”
Something about that felt too intimate. The feeling of Linc understanding me was so overpowering I needed some distance. When my truck came into view, I breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ll text you when all the pieces are in.”
“Sounds good,” Linc said, not crowding me as if he could read that I needed the space.
I stepped off the curb and moved toward my driver’s side door. One of the flyers for the auction and fundraiser had been tucked beneath my windshield wiper. I automatically grabbed it, but something caught my attention. A flash of red.
There hadn’t been any red on the flyers we’d created as a team. We’d designed the image as a mixture of all four of our art styles with a headline in deep blue, and the date, time, and location in green at the bottom. But this flyer had boxy red writing at the top. Angry slashes that had my breaths picking up speed and blood roaring in my ears.
I KNOW WHO YOU REALLY ARE .