Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Caleb
Seacliff Cove basked in perfect late-morning light, the kind photographers chased for years. Inside the gallery, I sat alone at my desk, staring at Fontaine’s emailed offer for the hundredth time, the words glaring at me.
Five days. It had been five days since that call, and I was no closer to an answer.
The gallery was officially closed on Mondays, but I’d come in anyway, desperate for distraction.
I couldn’t concentrate, though. Exhibition catalogs lay scattered across my desk, inventory sheets remained half-completed, and the year’s schedule was abandoned mid-plan.
My phone glowed with Mary Anne’s frustrating response to my request for a call: Spotty cell service. Can talk when back next week. Margaritas on the beach!
Next week would be too late. Fontaine wanted an answer in nine days. My sabbatical would end in five months. The walls of my carefully constructed life were closing in, suffocating me.
But worst of all—Mason wouldn’t look me in the eye anymore.
For five days, he’d been polite, professional, and completely unreachable.
His smile never quite touched his eyes. He found reasons to step away whenever I came close.
Our conversations, once flowing and intimate, had become a series of clipped sentences about inventory and exhibition promotion.
The distance between us felt vast and grew wider by the day.
I’d tried everything. Coffee deliveries he accepted with mechanical thanks. Text messages answered hours later with single words. Dropping by the bookstore only to be told he was busy with paperwork. Each rejection, however politely delivered, cut deeper than the last.
He wouldn’t talk to me.
I closed my laptop, unable to face Fontaine’s email any longer. This was impossible. The position at the Louvre had been my dream for years. The connections, the prestige, the ability to shape one of the world’s greatest collections of art.
But now all I wanted was to find a way to stay in this small coastal town, in the cramped apartment above a bookstore, near the man who still held my heart after eleven years.
But without confirmation that Mary Anne was truly retiring, how could I stay? What would I do in Seacliff Cove without the gallery? How would I support myself? What other job could possibly suit my specialized expertise? Questions spiraled through my mind, each without an answer.
But one question burned brighter than the rest: Why had Mason pulled away? Had I said something wrong? Done something to hurt him?
I needed answers, starting with that one.
Before I could reconsider, I locked the gallery and walked toward downtown. At the diner, I ordered Mason’s usual: a bacon cheeseburger with fries and a chocolate shake. I remembered ordering it for him during college all-nighters, loving how his face would light up at the first bite.
While I waited for our food, Landon slid onto the stool next to me at the counter. “How’s it going, darling?” he asked, breaking me out of my daydream.
“Can’t complain,” I replied. “Just picking up some lunch for Mason. The store’s been keeping him really busy lately.”
“Yeah, but I’m glad it’s doing well. He’s been happier the past few weeks than I’ve seen him in a while.”
Happier? My skin tingled at the thought that I had anything to do with that. But then why was he pulling away?
Declan came out from the kitchen and slid my takeout across the counter. “Hey, Caleb, order up. Your usual, Landon?”
I thanked him and said, “Catch you guys later,” before Landon could even nod.
The fragrant bag felt heavy in my hands as I climbed the staircase to Mason’s apartment. My heart pounded harder with each step. What if he refused to see me? What if this made things worse? I paused at his door.
I knocked before I could change my mind.
When the door opened, Mason looked genuinely surprised. He wore a faded UCSF sweatshirt and jeans, his hair slightly disheveled. The sight of him, handsome but guarded, made my heart ache.
“Lunch?” I held up the takeout bag like an offering. “Please. We need to talk.”
Emotions flickered across his face—wariness, longing, pain—before he stepped aside wordlessly.
The apartment was tidy as always, but I noticed small signs of distress—an abandoned book upside down on the coffee table, breaking the spine.
A dirty mug in the sink. A blanket twisted on the couch.
Alarmed, I recognized his coping mechanisms. Mason always read when upset, always left dishes unwashed when distracted, always wrapped himself in blankets when seeking comfort.
We unpacked the food in awkward silence. I’d chosen comfort food deliberately, hoping to pierce the armor he’d constructed. For several minutes, we ate without speaking, the only sounds the crinkle of wrapping paper and the soft hum of the refrigerator.
Finally, I set down my barely touched sandwich. “What happened, Mason?” My voice cracked slightly. “One day we were…and then suddenly, you pulled away. Did I do something wrong?”
He avoided my eyes, focusing intently on his food. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” I leaned forward, fighting the impulse to reach for his hand. “Please, tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it.”
The plea in my voice seemed to reach him. He set down his burger and finally met my gaze, pain clear in his brown eyes. “I heard your phone call,” he mumbled. “Last Wednesday. I heard enough to know it was a job offer. And I heard that you didn’t say no.”
My stomach dropped. The pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity. Of course—it explained everything.
“Mason—”
“No, it’s okay,” he interrupted, his voice carefully controlled. “You don’t owe me an explanation. We haven’t made any promises to each other. But I didn’t hear you say no. I just… I can’t do this again, Caleb. I can’t let myself fall for you and then watch you leave. Not twice.”
I reached across the table, desperate to connect, but he pulled his hand back. The rejection stung like a physical blow.
The words rushed out. “I don’t want to go back to Paris.”
“Then why didn’t you say no?” The hurt in his voice was unbearable.
“In France, immediately declining is unprofessional, even rude. It’s expected that you’ll take time to consider, even if you know you’ll decline.”
“So, you’re going to say no?” Hope flickered briefly in his eyes.
Words failed me. I wanted to say yes, to promise I’d stay no matter what. But if Mary Anne didn’t retire and she reclaimed the position as director, what would I do? “I want to stay here, in Seacliff Cove. With you,” I said finally. “But I don’t know how yet.”
“So, if you can’t stay, you’ll go back to Paris?” His voice was small, vulnerable in a way I’d rarely heard from him.
The question hung between us—the crux of our problem.
“I don’t know,” I admitted, my need for honesty winning out over the temptation to make empty promises. “But I’m trying to find a way to stay. I just need more time.”
Mason nodded, a mixture of understanding and continued wariness in his expression. “I appreciate your honesty,” he said, despite his hurt. “But I need to protect myself until you know for sure. I can’t go through that pain again.”
The silent acknowledgment of our impasse settled between us. I understood his withdrawal now, but that understanding did nothing to bridge the gap. He had every right to protect himself. I had hurt him before, even if unintentionally. Why should he trust that I wouldn’t do it again?
Our lunch sat mostly uneaten as I prepared to leave. At the door, I turned back to him, needing to offer something, some assurance that mattered.
“Fontaine gave me a deadline. But I’ll keep you up to date on the situation,” I promised. “Whatever happens, I won’t disappear on you again. That’s one mistake I won’t repeat.”
It wasn’t everything, but it was something—a promise I knew I could keep, regardless of what happened with Mary Anne or the gallery. As Mason nodded in acknowledgment, I saw a small crack in the wall between us. It wasn’t forgiveness or reconciliation, but it was a start.
As I walked back to the gallery, the beautiful day seemed to mock my turmoil. I had nine days to figure out how to stay in Seacliff Cove, or I would lose Mason forever—this time with no one to blame but myself.