Chapter 7 Willow #2
“Yes,” I say quickly, resting a hand on her shoulder. “She’s being a little artist today.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares—first at her, then at me—as if trying to match us, to find the resemblance. His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking there. “She shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” he mutters, eyes narrowing slightly.
I force a laugh that sounds brittle even to me. “Kids, right? She’s fine. Anyway—like I said, this piece won’t be done until next year.”
That gets his attention. He looks back at the painting, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Next year,” he repeats softly. Then, after a beat, he smiles again—too many teeth, and it annoyed “Well, I suppose that gives me an excuse to see you again, doesn’t it?”
Something in my chest goes cold. I take a small, instinctive step back, pulling Penny with me. My voice feels too high when I say, “Merry Christmas, Justin.”
He lingers on my name, the way it sounds in his mouth. Then, with a tilt of his head that feels rehearsed, he replies, “Merry Christmas, Willow.”
He turns, slow and unhurried, the door chime breaking the tension like thin glass when he finally steps outside.
The moment the door closes, I move. My fingers fumble with the lock, flip the sign from OPEN to CLOSED, and only then do I exhale. My pulse is thrumming in my ears, the silence that follows almost ringing like alarms.
Penny looks up at me, wide-eyed. “Mom… who was that man?”
I smile—too quick, too tight—and brush her hair back from her face. “Just someone who really likes paintings.” I force lightness into my tone. “Come on, let’s see what Pops is up to, yeah?”
She nods uncertainly, and I take her hand, my palm still clammy from where his glove brushed mine.
As we walk toward the back room, I glance once more at the locked door, at the faint outline of his footprints vanishing into the snow outside.
I try to shake off the encounter with Justin as I clean the brushes and help Penny into her coat, but it clings—thin and invisible, like the smell of turpentine that never fully leaves my skin.
By the time we’ve turned off the lights and stepped into the cold, the sky has already dimmed to bruised blue. Snow drifts in soft spirals around the streetlamps, catching the light in glittering motion. I call Cast as we lock the door behind us. He picks up on the first ring.
“Everything okay, love?” His voice is roughened by the cold or maybe concern.
“Yeah,” I lie automatically, tucking Penny closer under my arm. “Just ready to head home.”
“I’ll come get you,” he says before I can argue. “Ten minutes.”
When the truck pulls up, the headlights carve gold through the falling snow.
Cast leans across the seat to open the passenger door, his eyes scanning me like he’s taking stock of something unspoken.
He doesn’t say anything about how pale I must look, or how tight my grip is on Penny’s hand.
He just squeezes my knee once before driving us through the empty streets toward home.
By the time we pull into the driveway, the house is glowing—warm light in every window, laughter spilling out when Cast opens the door.
The smell of dinner hits me first—roasted rosemary chicken, buttered rolls, something sweet baking.
It feels like stepping into another world, one that doesn’t know about strange men or unsteady smiles.
Vincent’s mother—everyone calls her Nana, even me—stands at the stove, stirring something on the range. Her silver hair is tied up in a loose bun, and she wears an apron that says Beaumonts Don’t Burn Things (Usually) in red embroidery.
“Willow, darling,” she says, turning with a smile that softens everything in me. “You look exhausted. Long day?”
I hang Penny’s coat, still thawing from the cold. “You could say that. The gallery was… busy.”
Nana hums, handing me a mug of tea that somehow she’s already anticipated I’ll need. “You’re always working,” she says gently. “Always taking care of everyone else.”
“I like to keep busy,” I say, though even to my own ears it sounds rehearsed.
She studies me with that knowing look of hers, the one that sees through everything. “Busy is fine. But it’s not the same as taking time for yourself. Or for your men.”
My lips twitch into a small, guilty smile. “That sounds like something you’d say.”
“Because it’s true,” she says simply. “Those boys of mine—Vincent, Cast, Damien—they all orbit around you whether they admit it or not. And you? You hold too much. If you don’t rest, if you don’t let yourself be loved back, you’ll burn out before the new year.”
Her words sink deeper than I want to admit. I glance toward the living room where I can hear laughter—Vincent’s low voice, Damien teasing Elise about her ballet shoes, Theodore’s wild shrieking as Rose steals his stuffed reindeer.
“I know,” I murmur. “I just… forget sometimes that I’m allowed to not work, or take care of my four kids, or be a wife to my three husbands.”
Nana smiles softly, touching my cheek. “You could have forty kids and two hundred husbands.”
Before I can answer, Cast’s arm wraps around my waist from behind, pulling me gently against him. “I love you enough to share, but I can’t put up with your other 198 husbands.” he teases, his breath warm against my ear.
“She’s right,” I say, turning in his arms. “I needed to hear it.”
Penny darts past us toward the living room, calling for Theo and Rose. The house fills with the kind of noise that only comes when everyone’s home—the good kind, the kind that wraps itself around you until you can finally breathe again.
Nana chuckles and goes back to stirring the pot. “See? That’s better already.”
Cast lowers his voice, eyes searching mine. “You sure everything’s okay? You sounded… off when you called.”
I hesitate, then shake my head lightly. “Just a weird customer,” I say, letting my hand rest against his chest. “I’ll tell you later.”
He studies me a second longer, then nods. “Alright. But you’re not leaving my side tonight.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”