Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
GRACE
T wo weeks after my birthday party, I’m standing outside the Lewistown Arts Center. Despite the printout of my resume Ruby helped me write up, I’m nervous as hell. She’s good at this stuff and makes everything sound so easy. I wish I had her confidence. Instead, I cling to my portfolio with one hand, my bag with the other as I lock up Blue and cross the sidewalk to the large building in front of me.
I have no intention of leaving this small town now that I have finally found somewhere safe and stable. But I refuse to be deadweight. Hence, the job hunting. And when an opening for the arts program teacher came up, I knew I’d be kicking myself if I didn’t apply.
Getting to spend my days putting my half of a Fine Arts degree to use is a win in my opinion. But I never finished it, and that makes me nervous. The first question they’re going to ask is why. It’s for the stupidest reason under the sun. My parents were right about that part, at least. I just never thought that it would be all it took for them to drop me from their lives.
I push on the glass door and walk into the spacious front showroom. The woman sitting at the small counter stands with a smile. “Can I help you?”
“Um, hi. I’m Grace Weston. I’m here for an interview about the arts teaching position?”
Did that sound like a question? Ugh, I can even fake an ounce of Ruby’s confidence. Heat flushes my neck, and I grip my portfolio to my chest like a complete idiot. She moves out from behind the desk and gestures for me to follow.
We walk through the showroom, its walls covered in art of all types. My gaze snags on an oil painting of a landscape. I stall my pace, taking in the fine detail of the green hills, the thin, winding stream that flows between craggy rocks and tall piney trees. It’s mesmerizing...
Maybe I could paint the mountains one day? Camp out under the night sky, and when the sun finally cracks over the horizon the next morning, I would be set up. Easel. Brushes. Blues and whites. Browns and gold?—
“Miss Weston?” The small brunette lady’s eyes volley between me and the landscape painting. “I can’t blame you for your fascination, it’s a stunning piece. A local artist, to boot!”
“Are you serious?” I ask, face lit up.
“Oh yes, she doesn’t paint much anymore. Once she was a bit of a local legend. I’ll introduce you the next time she comes in.”
Assuming I get the job, I guess she means.
“That would be amazing. Thank you.”
She continues to the back of the room and pushes through the door labeled staff only . Down a short hall, we arrive at a door on the left. “Well, this is you.” She knocks before pushing the door open. “Your interview is here, Don.”
“Come in, come in,” the voice of an older man says.
The woman steps aside, and I step into the small office. An elderly man stands at his desk, hand offered over the desk in a welcome. I take it and shake it firmly, hoping I appear more confident than the complete mess I feel right now.
“Don Anderson. You must be Grace?” He smiles and drops into his chair before waving at the one on my side of the desk.
“Yes, thank you for seeing me.”
“Of course. We were hoping to find someone to fill the arts program teacher last month. With all the talent in this old town retired, we had no luck. What have you brought with you there?”
I hand over the portfolio that has my resume tucked into the first clear slip pocket. “It’s my resume and my art portfolio, from when I was practicing. Not everything I’ve ever done is in there, only the better pieces...”
I twist my hands in my lap, hiding them beneath the desk, as he flips through the oversized pages in the black folder. “I’m used to working in most mediums, but oils are my favorite.”
He holds up a hand. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me, lass.”
Shit.
Damn, trust me to mess this up. A lump rises, obscuring my airways. My button-down shirt, slacks, and jacket are suddenly far too tight. Too hot. Every second drags as he starts from the beginning and goes over each page again. Slowly. Painfully slow.
I don’t know what to do with myself. Sitting across from the man who is charge of whether I land a job in a place I have wanted my entire life. Granted, it’s not the MET, but it’s still art, and it’s close to Mackinlay. And his family.
“Hmmm.” Don closes the portfolio and clasps his hands, elbows resting on the arm rests of his chair. “I’m afraid?—”
The air in my lungs burns.
Calm down, Grace, it’s simply the start of the process.
But this job was perfect .
Spots filter into my peripheral, and I grip the seat of the chair. Hanging on like I’m at the bow of the Titanic. That moment before Jack tells Rose to breathe in and hold her breath.
“Miss Weston, are you alright? You needin’ a glass of water or some air?” Don’s voice slips through the ringing in my ears that I don’t remember starting.
I force myself to relax. Noting the things around the room, like Mack had when he had the episode the day I dropped the plate in the kitchen. Ruby’s words filter through. Three things you can see, Mack; three things you can hear .
A heavy hand presses to my shoulder. I glance up to the worried and weathered face of Don.
Oh god.
If the floor could open up and swallow me now, that would be fantastic. He sits on the edge of the desk and grips the edge with a soft smile, and my breaths come a little easier.
“Now, I know you didn’t just have a conniption about gettin’ this job.”
“Maybe a little. I need this. I will work hard and I’m a fast learner. Art is my dream, my life?—”
“Grace, you have the job. And if you had let me finish, I was going to say, I’m afraid you’re far too qualified for this small town and this hack of a job. But it’s a start. And we would be thrilled to have you as part of the Lewistown Arts Center team.”
My jaw hangs slack.
“Honey, it has been a long time since this old place has seen new blood. Can you start Monday? I’d love to revamp both the kids’ and adults’ classes and, if you’re up for it, a daily gallery tour—pending numbers of course—and staff the shop front during business hours?”
“I would love to!”
“Great! Any other ideas you can come up with to generate interest in this relic of a community center are appreciated.”
He leans and collects my portfolio up and hands it back to me. “Impressive, Grace. Somewhere down the track, you could paint something to hang here. Gauging by the response it gets, a commission spot on the wall could be yours.”
I’m speechless, again.
“Shall we?” He heads for the door. Stunned, I follow him out and shake his hand as we say our goodbyes. Don walks back the way we came as I follow. With a brief goodbye, I push through the doors and spill onto the street. The first thing I see is the black hat. The cowboy leaning on Blue. The bouquet of pink flowers that dangle from his hand.
Deep blue eyes track me as I close the distance, his grin matches the fireworks currently flying around my body. I got the job! I actually landed an art job.
“You got it, didn’t you?” He rests the flowers on Blue’s roof and picks me up the second I’m close enough. My feet swing as he twirls me around. I squeal and his hearty chuckle sends the warmth that rose in my chest moments ago spilling over. My feet hit the ground, and his hands are on my face. “I knew you’d get it, gorgeous girl. Your work is brilliant. Now to celebrate, name it, it’s yours.”
“You been sneaking into my yoga room, Mackinlay Rawlins?” I chuckle and brush a kiss over his lips. “Anything I want?”
His hand lifts my chin a little higher. “Absolutely anything.”
“Hmmm, I might take you up on that, Mack. But first, take me somewhere to eat. Now the nerves have worn off, I am starving.”
“How about Italian?”
I scan the street up and down. His truck isn’t here. “Pasta and you? Sign me up! Hey, how did you get here?”
“Reed dropped me off.”
He swipes the flowers from the roof and places them in my hands and folds me into a warm hug, soft words caressing the shell of my ear. “Congratulations, my girl.”
I turn my head and catch his mouth with mine. Dragging his bottom lip through my teeth, a hand pressed to his chest. “We could skip the entrée, have a quick bite and grab dessert at home...”
“You read my mind.”
The pasta at Mama’s Place was almost as good as Louisa’s. Her cooking is outstanding. I wonder if she would show me how to make that chocolate cake...
“What you thinkin’ about?” Mack says, mischief in his eyes as we drive the long dirt road home. His black hat sits on the back seat. He can’t fit in the Beetle with it on. It was hilarious to watch him try.
“Your mom’s chocolate cake, actually,” I say with a laugh.
“Yeah, that one makes my top three. So damn fine.”
“Agreed. You know what would make it even better?”
“No, what?”
“If I could smear it all over you and lick it off.”
He veers to the side of the road, pulling the car back to the center a second later. “Sweet Jesus, Grace. Make a man go cross-eyed with that talk, why don’t ya?”
I let out a laugh so hearty, so life-affirming, it kind of hits me as the sound falls from my lips. How free, how happy I am. I know I did the hardest part by myself, but this man in front of me brought me the last mile. “Mack, pull over.” The words are breathy, strained.
“What, what is it?” He slows Blue and pulls over on the side of the gravel road.
I undo my seatbelt and crawl over onto his lap. It’s cramped, but I don’t care. “I need to tell you something...”
My heart bangs against my sternum. It’s now or never, Weston.
His eyes search my face. “Whatever it is, Gracie, you can tell me.” Warm hands hug my face.
And the feeling is cemented.
“Mackinlay, I—I think I’m falling. I mean, for you.”
His face slackens. His chest caves like it took a hit. “Gorgeo?—”
He slams his eyes shut, breaths coming too quick. His hands grip my hips. I plant kisses over his jaw. Tracing the angles of his cheekbones with my fingertips. My favorite thing to do with Mackinlay Rawlins. Touch. Kiss. Hold. Drown in.
Possibly . . .
Love.
Swallowing hard, his Adam’s apple bobs. “I have—I’m fond of you too, Grace.” Face twisting for a second, his eyes light and the biggest grin erupts. I laugh at him, and he frowns as he leans in and nips my earlobe.
“Mack, Hallmark called. You’re fired. You’re going to have to do better than that.”
He growls, low and soft. “Gorgeous girl.” Dark eyes find mine. “I already fell.”
He pushes me back and forth on his lap. Grinding me over his erection. We oscillate from amused to aroused. It seems to be our constant cycle the past week or so. Right now, I’m not amused. Nipples hard and warmth pooling in my belly at an alarming rate, I cup his jaw and kiss his lips briefly. “I wonder how fast Blue can go...”
“No way, we are not speeding home. Besides, the wait could be considered foreplay.”
I climb back to my seat as he shifts the Beetle into gear.
I can’t take my eyes from him as he puts the VW through her paces. Never speeding, but he’s not slacking off by any means. In the side mirror, I catch the wake of dust flying up behind us. Mack looks ridiculous driving little old Blue, his bulky frame folded into the driver’s seat. Hands gripping the wheel, making it appear smaller than it is. I chuckle at him. Amusement returns.
“Care to share, Miss Weston?”
“Just the sight of you crammed behind the wheel. You’re like a cartoon character, bouncing down a bumpy road in a tiny matchbox car.”
“Pretty sure the first time you ordered me into this tin can, I told you that...”
“You did.” He absolutely did.
He glances at me, a shit-eating grin on his face.
“Why did you let me get away with that, you obviously don’t fit.” I chuckle again as he flaps his elbows like a bird trying to fly. When he looks at me with those deep blues and says, “You have no idea the lengths I would go for you, Gracie.”
The laughter dies out and I sit quietly, taking him in. His gaze drifts back to the road. His face has fallen to something akin to mine. Serious. Contemplating. Like we both knew, but only now realized who we are to each other.
“Mackinlay,” I whisper.
He stares ahead for a beat before turning his gaze to me. “Yeah, gorgeous.” His voice is raw. The emotion I feel is evident in his words, too.
I swallow back the other confession that wants out, schooling my face to something lighter. “Are we there yet?”
The hearty rumble that breathes from his chest spreads warmth through mine.
“Almost.”