5. Hope
CHAPTER 5
Hope
M y first mistake is concentrating on balancing the sculpture in my hand and not looking where I’m going. I run into a hard body, knocking myself back a step. A hand grabs me, keeping me on my feet, but my heart stops as I watch in horror as the sculpture lands on the floor, shattering.
“Oh my God!” I drop to my knees in a panic, trying to scoop up all the pieces.
I stare in shock, my mind going momentarily blank.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I know I can’t save it because it’s in a million fucking pieces, but I will time to reverse.
Rage boils in my blood.
This is my space.
My sanctuary.
So who the fuck has the audacity to interrupt me?
I’m supposed to be alone, so who the fuck just ruined my piece? I look up then, pushing my glasses up my nose, and trail my gaze up from a pair of shiny black shoes, black pants, and a black t-shirt to the face I want to punch most.
Braxton Hero is standing in front of me, not seeming remorseful in the slightest that he caused to me break a piece of art that took me ages to complete.
“You should watch where you’re going,” he says. I bite my tongue and look away from his cocky grin as I start picking up the broken pieces at his feet. He makes no move to help me or even get out of my way. No, he stays exactly where he is, and I fucking hate the arrogance radiating off him.
When I don’t say anything, he drops down to a crouch. At first, I think he is going to help after all, like a normal person would. Instead, I feel his gaze boring into me through his black sunglasses, as if studying me like some kind of animal.
Why the fuck is he even here?
“Hope, look at me.” I don’t. I just keep picking up the pieces of broken clay. My mind’s in frantic overdrive. I’m too freaked out to even think about how mad he makes me because I need to remake this ASAP. This piece was paid for, and it wasn’t cheap. All my pieces sell for high prices; it’s one thing I love about what I do. I can earn money from something I love doing… and be left alone in my studio. Ordinarily.
“I don’t have time for your antics,” I hiss, cupping the broken pieces in my hand as I stand and then hurry back to the studio. I might’ve had liquid courage last time I saw Braxton, but then and now are entirely different situations, and I certainly don’t do well with someone coming into my space uninvited.
I quickly realize that he’s following me into my private space. His shoes squeak against the wooden floorboards, and I turn on him. I’m wearing a free-flowing dress and no shoes. I prefer to work barefoot; it makes me feel more grounded. But right now I’m wishing I was wearing heels, as he towers over me with that smug fucking smirk.
“This is private property,” I’m quick to inform him as I push the door open with my hip.
Nope, Braxton takes that as an invitation to follow me.
My studio space is my domain. It’s where I feel most safe and at peace. It’s filled with plants that flourish under the bright sunshine coming in through the skylights. Classical music plays softly in the background and a small water fountain bubbles in the middle of the room. We’re on the top floor of the building, and right now, I’m very tempted to push him out one of the windows when he starts touching my things.
I try not to let him distract me as I throw the pieces into the trash, but my eye twitches as his hands smooth over the face of one of my sculptures. And then he runs them over an eagle’s wings. I drag out some clay so I can prepare to start the sculpture over again. I know the concept by heart, but it took me months to make it. There’s no way I’m going to get it done in time.
Fuck.
I can’t ignore his imposing presence any longer, and besides, I’m fucking furious. He did this. Having a man in my space, especially one that I don’t like, is intolerable.
“What’s wrong, Hope?” he asks, glancing at me as if susceptible to my inner rage.
“I’d like you to leave,” I say, putting my hands on my hips. But my voice is weak, and he smirks.
“You seem to have lost your fire. I remember when you were far more demanding. Or perhaps that’s only when you’re asking to be choked.” Heat floods my core, and I hate it so much that we ever spent any time together. Had I known he was a cop, I would’ve never gone there. Right?
He admires some of the half-finished sculptures on a side table. Some are paid for, and some are not. But most importantly, no one has seen them except for me. I don’t like when people look at my unfinished work. They’ll see the flaws or make suggestions, and it’s infuriating. It’s about my vision, not theirs.
“Is there something I can help you with? If not, I’ll call security and have them show you out.” His presence makes me nervous, and it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s a police officer. It’s just him; his undeniable presence, the way he stares at me like he’s sizing me up as if I’m some sort of prey. That night we spent together thrilled me. But this is something wholly different. There is something darker here. I know because I’m surrounded by men who have that same palpable presence.
“There is. I have a few more questions about the other night I didn’t get to ask before Daddy came and picked you up,” he says with a cocky grin. I know he does it on purpose, to antagonize me. Little does he know, I’ve worked with the press and media for years. I know when someone is baiting me or trying to get an explosive reaction.
“Can we do this another time?” I ask, waving a hand around. “I have work to do.”
“No. You’ll answer my questions now.”
“Why?” I snap, frustrated, a lock of my red hair falling into my face from my loose top bun.
“There she is,” he says, his expression smug.
“What questions do you have?” I sigh and then notice the gun holstered at his hip. His gaze follows mine. The guy’s probably so self-absorbed that he’s thinking I’m staring at his cock. Not that there’s anything wrong with his cock since I know what he’s packing. I swallow hard.
Get your mind out of the gutter. I internally reprimand myself.
“You would be familiar with these, wouldn’t you?” He takes the gun out of the holster and holds it up. “Considering what your father does.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I scoff, knowing exactly what my father does. He and his twin sister, Anya, deal in guns, among other things.
“Yes, of course you’d say that.” He picks up a piece of clay and squeezes it in his hand. He moves around my work table until we’re face-to-face. Only a foot separates us as he leans in and says, “Show me what you do.”
“No.” When I work, I can’t do it with anyone watching me. I have to be alone. “And although I’m sure it makes you feel very strong, intimidating me for whatever reasons, I really have to work.”
“Show me,” he says again.
“No. You need to leave.” I just barely refrain from shoving him out the door. But laying hands on this asshole is the last thing I can do. He’ll cuff me for it, and I don’t have time to play this game.
“Why? What are you going to do, call the police on me?” he asks as his lips thin. “I’ll have you arrested again.”
“Unless you have a warrant, you can kindly leave.” My voice is low and steady, but my glare screams, “You can kindly fuck off.”
He smirks. “A body was found the night you and your friend were at the nightclub. Remember the night you two mugged a police officer?”
I fold my arms over my chest. “So?”
“The man was poisoned. Clay was found under his nails. It was a rather gnarly scene, actually.” He pauses, brow raised. “Turns out, earlier that day, he was at one of the classes you taught as a guest instructor. Small world, huh?”
I stare at him in disbelief. “Wait. Do you think because a person was at a class I taught, that I… killed him? Are you delusional?”
“You seemed to have forgotten to mention it that night when you were cuffed in the interrogation room. Besides, murder runs in the family, doesn’t it?”
“Is this all because you’re annoyed about me leaving your room without saying goodbye four years ago? It was a one-night stand. Surely, you’re not that hurt over it. Or was I the only woman who didn’t stick around to inflate your narcissistic ego?”
“Such a poisonous tongue from the perfect daughter.” He smirks again.
“Stop that,” I chastise. He’s purposefully riling me up. He has no evidence, and he fucking knows it, so he’s trying to what… have me lose my shit at him so he can arrest me again? I’m not falling for his provocation.
There’s a knock on my door. It’s Charlotte’s voice on the other side, “Hope. Come on, girl, we’re going to be late.”
“Late for what?” he asks. “Do you plan to rob another victim?” I snort at the idea of him being a victim. “You find that funny?”
With my lack of response, Charlotte opens the door, looking down at her phone. “Your car is out front, Hope. I know you prefer to be left alone, but we have to go. I can’t believe I’m the one dragging you to be on it—” She stops in her tracks as she looks up, and her eyes go wide when she spots Braxton.
“Another suspect, considering she was in the same class as you.”
“There were over a hundred people in that class. Are you interrogating all of them as well?”
“I just start at where my gut tells me to,” he says and heads for the door. Charlotte tenses as he approaches her.
“I expect you to give Miss Ivanov my partner’s wallet, Charlotte. That little stunt cost him a date that he was very much looking forward to.”
Charlotte’s family is almost as influential as mine, which is most likely why she hasn’t been called into the station yet. But I’m certain that Braxton is one of few daring enough to do it, damned the consequences.
“S-sure,” she stutters, then looks at me, silently screaming for help. I’m not the one to look at since I’ve been trying to get rid of him myself. I look at my watch, having not realized the time. Fuck I really am behind schedule.
“I’ll be seeing you real soon, Hope,” Braxton says over his shoulder, then walks out.
Charlotte’s mouth is hanging open, but I don’t really have time to explain anything to her. I lost track of time, and now I have to hurry if I’m going to get the broken sculpture remade.
“I can’t go with you today,” I tell her busily. I need to start this piece immediately.
“What do you mean? It’s a charity event for the arts. Everyone who is anyone will be there. We have to go.” Like me, Charlotte is an artist, though she does mostly pottery.
Those types of events aren’t important to me. I don’t care for parties. I prefer to be by myself whenever I can. And especially in a heated moment when I have to prioritize starting this sculpture from the start.
When I don’t reply, she looks back at the door. “Was that one of the detectives from last weekend?”
I sigh, frustrated because I just need to get to work.
“Yes. Apparently, there was a murder at the club on the same night you stole the other detective’s wallet, and he’s investigating.” I look up distractedly and add, “Can you shut the door on your way out?”
I grab my apron and put it on.
“A murder?” She gasps. “He thinks we had something to do with it?”
“I never said that.”
She seems uncomfortable. “Oh. I just assumed. Anyway, it’s fine. I’ll go to the event on my own. Also, he doesn’t seriously expect me to return the wallet, does he? I threw it out on the same night.”
“Go and see if you can find it,” I say, exasperated. Because I know what will happen if she doesn’t—he’ll come back. And I don’t want him back here.
“Fuck.” She stomps her foot. “It was supposed to be a fun night.” I give her a warning glare. Charlotte is immature. She’s used to getting everything she wants when she wants, and when consequences are being rolled out, she throws a tantrum. She exasperates a sigh when I don’t agree with her. “Ugh, fine. I’m leaving,” she grumbles, dismissing herself and closing the door behind her.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, letting the rhythm of the classical music take over.
Everything is going to be okay. I’ll deal with the investigation bullshit later. Hopefully, the questioning about the murder is a one-time thing, but I have a nagging suspicion it won’t be the last time I see Braxton Hero.
I release a heavy sigh.
I’m going to have to call the buyer of the sculpture and tell her there’s been a delay.
I hate that.
I’m never late.
I’m always on time.
I have a feeling this is only the start of my time being encroached upon as a certain detective sniffs too closely. If my family catches wind of this, he won’t make it out alive. I’m trying to make the point to my parents I can stand on my own two feet, so I absolutely refuse to ask for help.
I can handle this asshole myself.