9. George
Chapter nine
George
I’m at Lynn’s house, painting the living room after I’ve done my work for the day. Even though I’m exhausted and would like to go home, I know this is taking longer than Lynn would like.
She won’t admit it, but she’s getting antsy to have her house back in order.
It’s taking me longer by myself than I anticipated. I really do have to find some way to convince Lynn to let me bring my crew out.
Perhaps I should break down and accept her paying me. If I do that, then I can use that money on gifts for her.
Besides, I can always lowball the estimate.
Maybe I’ll see if Catherine can help me think of something.
Speak of the devil—not that Catherine is a devil—the door flies open. Through the arch between the living room and the entrance, I watch her kick off her shoes and throw her purse to the ground.
She starts storming off, then comes back and tidies up.
Did things go badly at the museum?
I put the roller back in the paint and pad over. “Catherine? Are you okay?”
Catherine flinches back from me.
I stop.
“I didn’t see you. Where’s your truck, I didn’t see it.” Catherine runs her hands through her hair. “Never mind, where’s my grandmother? I need to—”
Lynn comes out of the kitchen, her brows lifted in surprise. “What’s going on out here?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” I say.
She looks between both of us. Her shoulders slump. “I’m probably overreacting.”
“Or you’re stressed and need to share what’s happening,” I offer.
Catherine chews her lip. “A photographer that used to hang around Crimson a bunch found me here. He came into the museum and started to ask me all sorts of questions while taking my picture. Ginny had to kick him out.”
My stomach drops. “Why would he follow you out here?”
“Looking for a story. This guy has been sued at least a dozen times for infringing on a celebrity’s privacy. I just know he’s going to come out here and we’re going to get more and more unwelcome guests.”
If she really isn’t dating Crimson, why all of this?
I fight back the urge to ask.
If she’s dating Crimson, she wouldn’t be pretending to be engaged to me.
“Let’s take a deep breath,” I urge. “If this was a situation one of your clients was in, what would you suggest they do?”
Catherine presses her fingertips to her temples. “I suppose I’d tell them to face it head-on.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do. Let me pick up my stuff here and we can plan our attack,” I suggest.
Catherine gives me a startled look but nods slowly.
I tidy things up and pour the excess paint back into the can. By this time, Catherine’s in the kitchen with Lynn. She’s sipping cherry cola out of a margarita glass.
Lynn pats her shoulder. “I’ll leave the two of you to talk.”
“You don’t have to leave,” I protest.
Lynn only winks at me.
I narrow my eyes suspiciously. Just what’s going on in that head of hers?
I don’t have the time to think too much about it.
Catherine heaves out a sigh once her grandmother’s gone. “I know this isn’t what you signed up for.”
“Nonsense. You needed someone to help take the heat off you. What else did I sign up for?” I ask.
She squints at me. “Dinner with your parents?”
I chuckle. “And you faced them for me. The least I can do is help you with this photographer. Now. Tell me about him. Is he dangerous?”
“No, just pushy. I suppose sometimes he borders on stalkery but I’ve never felt like I’m in danger around him,” Catherine answers.
I nod slowly. “Then we’ll have to take matters into our own hands. Tomorrow I’m going to go into the realtor’s offices and see about buying that place up the road here. Either way, you and I are going to have a sit down with this guy.”
“What?” Catherine’s eyes widen.
“If it’s the inside scoop he’s after, then we’ll give him the inside scoop,” I say with a grin.
“That… might work.” Catherine takes a deep breath as she straightens. “Are you sure?”
I nod firmly. “Bring it on.”
***
Lanky and thin, Donny looks like a paparazzi photographer. His eyes bug out of his head in a way that makes him look permanently surprised.
Catherine’s description of him fits to a T.
“You must be Catherine’s fiancé,” Donny greets.
I shake his hand, squeezing a little harder than needed. “That I am. Pleased to meet you.”
He eyes the beach house behind me. A look of disgust briefly passes over his face.
“So this is the place that Catherine’s been living?” he asks. “Where’s her grandmother? I’ve been looking forward to meeting her.”
“Nah, this isn’t Lynn’s place. Lynn doesn’t like visitors. Her mastiffs don’t either,” I add.
Donny pales. “Mastiffs?”
“Yeah, they just about killed a salesman last month,” I tell him seriously. “Course, he was lucky. Lynn would have gotten him with her shotgun if the dogs hadn’t gotten him first.”
“Uh…”
I laugh and wave a hand. “I’m just messing with you. But no, this isn’t the Hart place. Actually, Catherine and I just bought the house here. We’ll be fixing it up. We thought it might be a good place to have this conversation.”
Donny glances back at the long stretch of beach. I can almost see the thoughts in his mind.
Plenty of places to hide a body.
Maybe it’s a bit mean to scare him right off the bat like this. But if it makes him leave Catherine and Lynn alone, then so be it.
Catherine arrives shortly. We give him a tour through the house all the while explaining our fake version of events.
“You understand, then, that we don’t want the rumors to get any worse,” Catherine says once we’re done. “Crimson and his girlfriend deserve to make their relationship known in their own time.”
“So he is seeing someone new?” Donny asks, pouncing on the statement.
Catherine smiles. “That’s not for me to say.”
Donny looks disappointed.
After the tour is done, we go out to Lynn’s place. She has watermelon and lemonade for us. Donny tries to ask her questions, but she manages to make a tangent every time.
“No, I think she must have been closer to five,” she says during one of her stories. “Yes. She would have been five. Anyway, so this little five-year-old… or maybe she was six? Oh, dear. I don’t remember. What was your question again?”
Donny’s eyes were glazed. “Oh, nothing important. Uh, how about some photos? Then I can get out of your hair.”
“I have a family album up in the attic,” Lynn suggests. “It’s in this old blue box with bears dancing on it. Or maybe I put it in the green box. The one with ducks, not the one with geese. You know they’re ducks because their heads are green. Like the box.”
“Oh, I mean just some photos of Catherine and George.”
Lynn nods. “I think I have some of them, too.”
“How about just one? You two could have a little smooch?” Donny asks quickly, lifting his camera.
I shrug as I glance at Catherine. She leans across the table, and we kiss.
Unlike our previous times, though, she remains stiff. As a result, the kiss doesn’t last long at all.
Catherine gives me an apologetic look, but I only smile at her.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” Catherine offers to Donny.
I start helping Lynn with cleanup, keeping a close eye on Donny and Catherine. They talk at his car for some time.
“We can spy easier from inside,” Lynn tells me under her breath. She leads the way into the house, where she promptly turns and starts to peer through the blinds.
Feeling a little silly, I do the same.
“I hope that you and Catherine have some kissing practice lined up,” Lynn tells me as we spy. “That was some pretty weak action.”
“Only because we were getting photographed,” I protest.
Lynn smirks at me. “Is that so? My, my. So you have been practicing.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter,” I tease back.
But as we stand there, spying, something twinges in my chest. It was a stiff kiss. But what if it’s about more than the photographer?
“We kissed in our first year of high school,” I say softly. “It was a bad kiss, too. I tried to be what I thought was passionate and I ended up ruining it all. Is that when she stopped liking me?”
“What do you mean about stopped?”
I shrug. “In high school, I thought our competitions were more or less friendly. Then at graduation, she completely blew up at me. Called me heartless. So I just don’t know when things changed.”
Lynn lets the blinds shut again. “Look. A fake engagement is one thing. But it’s a risky move, blurring the line between real and fake.”
“I’m not blurring anything,” I protest.
She gives me a look that makes me doubt myself.
But I’m not blurring. I’m just wondering if my bad kissing ruined our relationship forever.
That’s not blurring the lines.
Right?