Chapter 22
Emily stepped back from where Grant had just hung her lighthouse painting. The natural light caught the brushstrokes differently here than in her cottage studio. Better, maybe. Or just different. She couldn’t tell anymore.
“The height’s good.” He adjusted the frame a fraction to the left. “Want to check the angle from where people will come into the room?”
She walked to the entrance and turned back.
Three paintings in a row, telling a story she hadn’t meant to tell.
The lighthouse interior with its brass lamp and half-written letter.
The storm-tossed seascape, all churning grays and desperate blues.
The courtyard gathering, warm with community she’d only started to believe in.
“They look...” The words stuck. Professional? Real? Like they belonged here?
He joined her in the entryway. “They look like you. I mean, like your work. The real work, not the—”
“Not the stuff I did for Franklin.” She finished the thought he was too polite to voice. “Yes, these are different.”
Different because she’d painted them for herself.
Grant moved back to adjust the middle painting. His movements had changed over the past week as they’d prepared for the festival. Less careful. More fluid.
“You’ve been working.” She nodded toward his hands, noting the small cuts and calluses that hadn’t been there before.
He flexed his fingers, seeming surprised she’d noticed. “Just playing around. Found some good driftwood after that storm last weekend.”
Playing around. Right. She’d seen him hauling materials into the back workshop, heard the sounds of sawing and sanding when she’d stopped by yesterday. He was creating again, even if he wouldn’t call it that yet.
“Show me?” The request slipped out before she could stop it.
He hesitated. She recognized the look. The fear of being seen creating. Of someone witnessing the vulnerable act of making something from nothing.
“They’re not...” He stopped. Started again. “They’re just experiments.”
She motioned toward her paintings. “So were these. Still are, really.”
Something shifted in his expression. He led her through the gallery and back to his workshop, a space that smelled of sawdust and linseed oil and possibly hope, if hope really had a scent.
Three small sculptures sat on the workbench.
Driftwood and copper wire. Sea glass and rusted metal. Beautiful in their rawness.
“I started at my father’s studio. Then… I just couldn’t stop. I’ve been working here too.”
She moved closer, studying how he’d balanced organic curves against angular metal. “These are wonderful.”
“They’re not like my New York work.” His voice carried apology and defiance.
“No. They’re better.” She meant it. His earlier pieces had been clever and sophisticated. These had soul. “More honest.”
He laughed, but it wasn’t bitter. Just surprised. “Honest. Yeah, maybe that’s it.”
She reached out to touch one sculpture, then pulled back. “May I?”
“Sure.” He picked it up and handed it to her.
The piece was lighter than she’d expected. Smooth wood against rough metal. It felt alive in her hands.
“You should include these in the festival.” She set the sculpture down carefully.
“No.” The word came fast and firm. “Not ready for that.”
She understood. Wow, did she understand. But they each had to reach that decision in their own time. “Okay. But maybe soon?”
“Maybe.” He was watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read. “Emily, I—”
The workshop suddenly felt smaller. Warmer. She was acutely aware of paint under her fingernails, the way the afternoon light caught in his hair, and how long it had been since she’d stood this close to anyone.
“We should probably...” She motioned vaguely toward the gallery.
“Right. The paintings. Make sure they’re secure.”
They returned to the festival space, but something had changed.
The air between them crackled, like the atmosphere before a Gulf storm.
She tried to focus on practical matters like the artist statement she’d finally agreed to write.
But she kept getting distracted by the way Grant moved through his gallery and this festival room.
Sure and graceful, like he belonged here.
Like maybe she was starting to belong here too.
“The statement’s still too long. I sound like I’m defending a dissertation.” She frowned at her notebook.
Grant read over her shoulder. Close enough that she could smell his soap. Close enough that she had to concentrate on breathing normally.
“Cut the second paragraph?”
She crossed out the offending section. Better. Cleaner. Like everything else she’d been learning here, sometimes less was more honest than more.
She set the pen down. “There, three paintings and one short statement. Officially ready for public consumption.” She looked directly at him. “I’m still worried about Julian, though. What he might do. If he’ll show up.”
“I know.” He reached out and covered her hand with his. “But I’m so proud of you. I swear, you’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met.”
The warmth of his touch traveled up her arm. When had simple contact started feeling so significant?
She turned her hand palm up, letting their fingers interlock. “I don’t feel strong.” She shrugged. “But I’m tired of hiding.”
She squeezed his hand, then let go before she could do something stupid. Like step closer. Like find out if his lips were as warm as his hands. “We should test the lighting. Make sure the paintings are visible from different angles.”
For the next hour, they worked side by side. Adjusting spotlights. Measuring distances. Avoiding each other and the growing tension that made every accidental touch feel deliberate.
“Try now,” Grant called from behind the desk where the lighting controls lived.
She studied her paintings under the new configuration. The lighthouse interior glowed. The seascape looked properly turbulent. The courtyard scene felt inviting.
“Perfect.” She turned to tell him and found him closer than expected.
Much closer.
“Sorry, I was just—” He started to step back.
“Grant…”
They stood there, caught in the space between stepping forward and stepping back. Her heart hammered.
This was such a bad idea. She’d come here to hide, to heal, and to figure out who she was without scandal defining her. Getting involved with anyone, especially someone who understood her damage so well, could complicate everything.
But when Grant’s hand came up to brush a strand of hair from her face, every sensible thought evaporated.
“Emily.” The way he said her name made it sound new, sound special.
She leaned in, or maybe he did, or maybe they both moved at once. Then his lips were on hers, gentle and sure, and she was kissing him back like she’d been wanting to for weeks.
The gallery, the paintings, and the festival all faded away. There was just this. The warmth of his mouth. The solid feel of his chest under her hands. The rightness of it, despite all the reasons it shouldn’t feel right.
When they finally pulled apart, her head spun. Grant looked equally stunned.
“I...” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t plan that.”
“Me neither.” She touched her lips, still feeling the echo of contact. “Grant, I don’t know if I can—”
He stepped back, giving her space. “I know. We both have reasons to be careful.”
Careful. Right. Except she’d been careful for two years, and where had it gotten her? Alone in a cottage, afraid to paint, afraid to connect, afraid to live.
“I like you.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “More than I expected to. More than is probably smart. But I don’t know if I’m ready for... whatever this is.”
“I like you too.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “And I’m probably not ready either. But maybe we don’t have to be ready. Maybe we just have to be willing to see what happens.”
She considered this. In her old life, she’d planned everything. Calculated every move. Look how well that had worked out.
“One day at a time?” She offered.
He nodded. “I can do that.”