Chapter 15 #2
Every morning brought some new evidence of near-completion: the glass-walled mezzanine now gleamed above the main floor, the last of the blue tape was gone from the windows, and the HVAC guys had finally stopped turning the whole building into a wind tunnel.
The second floor was my domain, the office and conference nook framed out in matte-black steel and sound-insulating panels, so you could look down into the open gallery without actually hearing the contractors curse below.
Lysander called it “The Penthouse,” which made me snort Diet Coke out my nose the first time he said it.
I was curled up in my new office chair—floral, overpriced, worth every penny—staring down at a spreadsheet of RSVPs for Inez Chavez’s show. Lysander was sprawled on the couch opposite, laptop balanced on his knee and a bagel slowly dissolving in his mouth.
“You know,” he said, “If you squint at the RSVP list, you can see the three people who matter and the thirty who wish they mattered.” He shot me a wink. “But that’s gallery business, darling. Half the crowd just wants to be seen.”
I muttered, “Then they can be seen from the sidewalk. Let’s just put all the beautiful people out there and make them stare at the real art through the window.”
He laughed, then clicked his tongue at the screen. “God, I love you. You’re so much meaner than you look.”
It was our fourth day in the new office, and I felt like a raccoon in a luxury hotel: twitchy, caffeinated, terrified someone would discover I had no idea what I was doing.
The desk was already a wreck—sticky notes, color swatches, a sketchbook open to three separate disasters-in-progress, and a mug of hours-old coffee that had a design of old creamer swirled on the top.
Outside, the sound of drills and hammers echoed up the stairwell.
I checked the RSVP numbers for the third time, then set the laptop aside. “Do we really need to have the wall labels done by Monday? I’m still waiting for Inez to send half her titles.”
“Deadlines, honey,” Lysander said, not looking up from his own spreadsheet. “Nothing like the threat of public humiliation to move an artist’s ass.”
I snorted, then felt the heat of embarrassment flare up my cheeks.
My insides still shook from the nightmare last night—a cold, crawling dread that had left me gasping awake at 3 a.m., Gunner’s arms squeezing me so tight I’d nearly passed out again.
The dream itself was gone by morning, but the sick, hollow feeling hadn’t left.
Lysander must have noticed, because he set aside his laptop and gave me the kind of look reserved for animals about to chew off their own legs.
“Are you okay, Brie?” he asked, voice gentle. “You seem…haunted today.”
I opened my mouth, then snapped it shut, then opened it again. “I had a nightmare last night. Bad one. But I don’t remember a damn thing about it. Just the panic.” I tried to smile, but it came out twisted.
He nodded, crossing one leg over the other. “I had night terrors as a kid. Woke up screaming every night for a year. My mother said I was possessed by a goblin.” He paused. “She wasn’t entirely wrong, but that’s for another day.”
The words made me laugh, which I needed. “How’d you get them to stop?”
He grinned. “They don’t. I just learned to weaponize my insomnia.
” He looked at me over the rim of his mug.
“It’s probably just nerves, sweet thing.
You’re launching the gallery, the show’s a couple of weeks out, and you’re trying to keep a relationship going with a man who could bench-press a tractor.
I’d be shocked if you weren’t having night sweats. ”
“Maybe,” I said, but it didn’t feel like just stress. Still, Lysander’s smile was so disarming it was easy to let him talk me down.
He closed his laptop, stood, and circled behind my chair, draping his arms over my shoulders. “You need to find something to remedy this. Can’t have you losing sleep on the regular.”
I snorted. “In my life, that’s a tall order.”
He ruffled my hair, then leaned in. “Don’t you Southerners make some kind of hot toddy or something to help you sleep?”
“Maybe. I’ll check with Aspen. She’s originally from Georgia. If anyone can figure something out, it would be her.” Of course I was thinking of the fact that she’s a witch and might be able to whip up a spelled drink for me.
We spent the next hour locked in logistics—printing checklists, double-checking guest lists, arguing over whether Aspen’s vegan canapé platter would go over better than the baby quiches.
Lysander was a tornado of efficiency and dark humor; by the end of the morning, we’d crossed off more than half the to-do list. I started to feel almost normal.
At eleven sharp, Harper arrived, a little windblown and a lot frazzled, arms loaded with binders and a fresh bouquet of wildflowers from the nursery.
Her own dance studio was nearly done—just a floor left to varnish and a sound system to install.
She looked up at the glass office and waved, then bounded up the stairs in long-legged steps.
“Wow,” she breathed, setting down her things. “It’s so bright up here. I love it.”
“Better be,” I said. “We’re paying more for the view than the square footage.”
She set the flowers in a water cup, then plopped on the couch next to Lysander. “What are we doing?”
“Finalizing the guest list for Inez’s show. And panicking about wall labels,” I said, gesturing to the mess.
Harper made a face. “I’d rather be up here with y’all than trying to convince the plumber to show up before Monday. He canceled again.”
Lysander looked up from his laptop and said, “Brie’s sister, the ultimate contractor whisperer. Maybe the plumber’s intimidated by your muscles.”
Harper rolled her eyes, but it was clear she liked the attention. “Not likely,” she said. “He’s just an ass.”
I grinned. “Tell him the grand opening is in three weeks, and if he doesn’t have the pipes done by then, you’ll hex him.”
Harper arched a brow. “Do I look like a witch?”
“Honestly? A little,” Lysander said, and she snorted.
The mood stayed light until Lysander left to grab lunch. He offered to bring back poke bowls for everyone, but I asked for a plain bagel and cream cheese, blaming my “fragile constitution.” Once he was gone, Harper went quiet, picking at the edge of her sleeve.
I glanced over, caught her biting her lip. “What’s up, Harp?”
She looked down, then forced a smile. “It’s nothing. Just…I heard some of the pack women talking at the market. They’re…they’re saying things about me. About the studio.”
The anger snapped awake in me, sharp and sudden. “What things?”
She looked even smaller. “They said I shouldn’t be teaching little girls to dance. That I’m a bad influence. Because of…you know…what happened in Houston. How I was a stripper and all. That it’s not appropriate. That I’m ruined.”
My hands balled into fists on the desktop. “That’s bullshit. Every one of them knows what happened wasn’t your fault. Dad put you in that club, not you. You did what you had to do to keep us safe.”
Harper shrugged, eyes wet. “Doesn’t matter. Once a rumor starts, it spreads. I’m afraid the mothers are gonna pull their kids from my class.”
I couldn’t breathe for a second. The old, helpless shame curled in my gut, but this time I didn’t let it win. I reached over and grabbed her hand. “You have to tell Juliet.”
Harper looked up, startled. “I hate to stress her with her pregnancy and all.”
“She’s in charge of the pack, just like Bronc, right? It’s her job to stop this kind of shit.” I squeezed her hand. “She’s a badass, Harper. She’s not going to let them treat you like this.”
Harper shook her head. “I don’t want to cause trouble. I just want them to leave me alone.”
I wanted to scream. Instead, I leaned in. “You’re not causing trouble. You’re standing up for yourself. You’re the best person I know, Harper. The strongest. If you want me to go to Juliet for you, I will. Or I’ll take it to Arsenal. If he handles it, there won’t be anyone left standing.”
She smiled, watery but real. “Maybe you’re right. If he gets wind of this, nobody is safe. Juliet is my best bet. Thanks, Brie.”
We sat for a while, just holding hands, until the door opened and Lysander swept back in, arms loaded with takeout and his phone clamped between his ear and shoulder.
“Lunch, and drama,” he said, dropping poke bowls on the desk. “I just had to take a call from Mother. That’s always a delight.”
He winked at Harper, who wiped her eyes and smiled. “You okay, darling?” he asked.
She nodded, and I felt the simmering rage settle to a slow boil. Lysander set out food, regaled us with stories about his mother’s mafia-level negotiation skills, and the moment passed.
But I didn’t forget.
By the time Harper left to check on her own studio, I’d already drafted a mental letter to Juliet. I wasn’t going to let anyone bully my big sister.
Harper was a survivor.
And I was going to make sure she stayed that way.
I spent the next hour pretending to work, but I was really just stewing over what those pack women had said about Harper.
Every time I tried to focus on the guest list, my brain kept replaying the look on her face—shock first, then resignation, then that awful, brittle little smile as she tried to wave away the hurt.
It made my hands shake so bad I nearly cracked the handle off my coffee mug.
Lysander was an ace at reading a room. When Harper left, he set aside his phone, came to perch on the edge of my desk, and asked, “You want to talk about it, or just plot revenge in silence?”
I gave him a grateful smile. “How do you do that?”
“Years of fending off New York galleristas, darling. I can spot a mood shift at fifty paces.” He reached over and squeezed my shoulder—a nothing gesture, but it sent a bolt of relief through me. “You know you’re not responsible for her sadness, right?”
I tried to believe it, but the guilt was baked too deep. “She’s my sister. I’m supposed to protect her.”
Lysander leaned over my desk, taking my hand. “Then do. Use the tools you have. Slander works both ways, and I can be very, very mean.”
I laughed, the sound coming out raw. “You’re dangerous, Lys.”
He grinned. “That’s why you like me.”
The gallery’s front door buzzed—a sound no one else would notice, but which sent a flicker up my spine.
From my office, I could look right down onto the main floor.
Gunner stepped through the vestibule, boots echoing on the new hardwood, head swiveling with the laser focus of a man on patrol.
His hair was a little wild, his jaw stubbled with red-gold, and his eyes were so dark with purpose they looked black from up here.
I caught my breath.
Lysander quickly let go of my hands. “And there’s your man.”
I nodded. “He doesn’t like surprises.”
Gunner paused beneath the glassed-in mezzanine, looking up at me.
I raised a hand in a tiny wave; he didn’t smile, but he did tip his head, just enough for me to know he’d seen me.
Then he scanned the rest of the gallery, a perimeter check worthy of a Secret Service agent.
When he was satisfied, he started up the stairs.
Lysander, ever the strategist, gathered his stuff and said, “I’ll go check on the lighting downstairs. You two need a minute.”
He slipped out just as Gunner arrived at the door. I braced myself for a scene, but he only looked at me—hard, hungry, and with something else, too: a worry so sharp it almost hurt to meet his gaze.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just pulled me into his arms and kissed me, long and thorough, like we were both starving. I clung to him, fingers twisted in his shirt, the world shrinking down to the feel of his body against mine and the taste of coffee and salt on his lips.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against mine. “You okay, Maverick?”
The nickname made me melt. “Yeah,” I said, voice small. “Just…rough day.”
He nodded, thumb brushing my cheekbone. “Saw his hand on you.” His tone was even, but I caught the flare of jealousy in the line of his jaw.
I sighed. “Lysander’s not a threat, Finn. He’s gay, you know this. For another, he’s my friend.”
Gunner’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “He touched you.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “He’s a toucher, apparently. It’s all platonic, I swear.”
He wrapped me tighter, like he could squeeze the doubt out of both of us. “You’re mine, Brie. I don’t share what belongs to me. Don’t forget that.”
I buried my face in his neck. “I won’t. Sometimes I wish I could crawl into your skin and just stay there.”
He shivered, then lifted my chin, so I had to meet his eyes. “That’s a dangerous thing to say to a man like me.”
“Good. I like your dangerousness. And I love you.”
He kissed me again, slower this time. When he broke away, he cupped my face in both hands. “You tell me if anyone bothers you. I mean it.”
“I will. Promise.”
He seemed satisfied, but he gave the office a quick scan anyway. “You’re safe here?”
“Safest place in the world,” I said, only halfway believing it.
He grunted, then kissed me once more, just a quick press of lips, and headed back down the stairs.
I watched him do a full sweep of the gallery, pausing to test the locks and eye every shadow.
When he was done, he returned to the base of the stairs and called up, “I’ll be back at six, Maverick. Be ready to eat.”
“You got it, cowboy.”
He left, the air buzzing in his wake.
I flopped into my comfy chair, heart racing. Lysander poked his head in a minute later, eyebrow arched.
“Everything good?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Just security detail.”
He laughed. “You’re lucky. Some of us have to hire men that hot by the hour.”
I snorted, then looked back at the guest list. For once, the numbers didn’t matter. I could only count the hours until dinner at Pearl’s, and then—if I was lucky—another night tangled up with Gunner, safe from everything except my own craving.
This was my life now: work, worry, hunger, heat.
I wouldn’t have traded it for the world.