Chapter 3
three
ZACH
Have you told them yet? – Wyatt
I stare at his message the next morning, picturing him on his boat off the coast of North Carolina, waiting for my reply. Of all my family, Wyatt and I were always the closest. It’s not surprising, since we’re the closest in age, with him only a year younger than me.
He’s also the only person – other than medical staff – that I told about my near-accident in Rome. The way the tires screeched as I stepped into the road, not seeing anything to the right of me. The way I fell to the ground and scraped the side of my face.
The way my heart slammed against my chest for hours as I realized there was something wrong.
Not yet. Autumn’s organizing an art trail and gala. Wants me to help. I’ll tell them after that. – Zach
Pussy. – Wyatt
I laugh out loud, because that’s so Wyatt. He’s short and to the point. He doesn’t suffer fools, and he hates conflict. The man is just in love with boats and the ocean and there’s nothing wrong with that.
As I go to put my phone down, it starts to ring. It’s not Wyatt – he hates talking on the phone even more than he hates group chats – but Larry’s name that lights up on the screen.
“Hey,” I say, swiping my thumb to answer it. “What’s up?”
Larry’s worked for me for six years. He runs my gallery in Chicago single handedly, while I spend most of my time traveling, sourcing art for rich clients or for us to sell through the gallery itself.
He’s a good guy. In his early-thirties. But he’s also severely agoraphobic. He so rarely leaves the building, which is great for security but not so great for him.
Still, for as long as he needs it, he has a job and a home at the gallery.
Or at least, for as long as I can give it to him.
“We got an email from Sunset Alliance,” he says, because he also runs our comms. “They have a painting they want you to find. Disappeared after a residential break in.”
Insurance companies are also one of my biggest clients. They employ me to find missing pieces, using my contacts, my knowledge of dealers, and my ability to jump on a plane at a moment’s notice.
It’s lucrative work. We get a cut of any recovered artwork. And most of the pieces are worth millions.
I wrinkle my nose. “I can’t. I’m not available to travel for a while.” Or possibly forever.
There’s a pause. Then Larry clears his throat. “I was wondering,” he says. “Maybe I could do it. Or at least start it.”
“You want to do some investigating?” I question. Because this is new. Larry’s never been interested in the ground work.
But fuck, it could be a good thing. I’ve spent the last few weeks worrying about him. How he’s gonna keep a job when I’m not able to keep the gallery full.
“Yeah, I just… I don’t know. My therapist says I should start pushing at some boundaries.”
“I think it’s a great idea,” I tell him softly. “Why don’t you get started? If you come to a dead end, let me know and we’ll talk it through.”
“You think I could do it?”
Fuck, I hope so. “Yes, I do,” I say firmly. “Start like I do. With the basics. Where and when it was taken. When it was originally bought. You can do that from the gallery, for sure.”
“Okay. So I’ll tell them we’ll do it.” He sounds excited.
“Great.” I nod. “Talk later.”
When we hang up, I stand and walk over to the huge windows that overlook the grassy cliffs that lead down to the Atlantic Ocean.
It’s beautiful. Like looking at a painting. It fills my heart the way art does. The way beauty does.
And it kills me.
Taking a deep breath, I shake my head at myself. Enough of this. It’s fine, I’m fine. Even Larry’s fucking fine.
Maybe it’s time to stop worrying and start living. For as long as I can.
SADIE
I’m pulling back the covers on my bed when my phone pings with a message from Romy, who should be fast asleep by now, after the long shift we both pulled. But she’s younger than me – albeit by a few years – and seems to have endless energy. My eyes scan the words and a smile pulls at my lips.
New YouTube video is up. Expect lots of online orders. Oh, and don’t forget it’s Bro’s Book Club on Tuesday. You’ll need to close the shop early. - Romy xx
I drop my phone onto the bed and smile to myself.
No wonder I’m exhausted. Saturdays in spring are always hectic, but today had been something else.
Between the tourists, the locals, and Romy’s army of online followers, the shop was buzzing all day.
The stack of mail orders by the register was so tall the poor mailman grumbled that I was single-handedly funding his physical therapy bill.
But it pays my bills. And I’m supremely grateful for that.
As soon as I’m nestled beneath the sheets, I click on the link Romy sent. The screen lights up, competing with the soft glow of the lamplight on the table beside my bed, then Romy’s smiling face comes into focus.
“Hello book friends, I’m Romy and I’m coming to you straight from Books by the Sea, where the romance is hot, the tropes are messy, and the caffeine never stops flowing.” She lifts her mug – emblazoned with our logo – to prove it.
God, I love her.
I can see the soft pink walls of the shop behind her, twinkle lights glowing over the romance display. She’s turned some books around so the covers are showing – that always increases sales.
“This is episode two in our series about romance kinks, and why they float our boats. Tonight we’re talking about primal play,” she says, lowering her voice a little.
“Now, this one’s not about pain, or punishment, or even dominance.
It’s about instinct. It’s about choosing to give control to someone you trust, and letting yourself be wanted. ”
She carries on, and I realize this is the bit I overheard her recording. When she’s talking about games of chase, of capture. She describes it in her low, warm voice, and I find my face heating.
Jesus, am I getting turned on by game of tag now? I really need to get a life.
She recommends a couple of books. Ones I know we have stocked – because of course she made me put in extra orders before she recorded this video.
She describes the first one, leaning closer to the camera.
“He hunts her,” she whispers. “And she likes it. She wants it. Imagine having a man so desperate to catch you, he’ll do whatever it takes.
Break laws, break people, protect you to the ends of the earth.
You’re the only thing driving him.” She fans her face with the book, like she needs some cool air.
“Seriously, who wouldn’t want to be somebody’s obsession? In a book at least? I know I would.”
I’m taking that bit with a pinch of salt. Last week she wanted to ride dragons. But still, it’s hard not to be captivated by the way she leans in, her face so completely animated.
“And if you think this is all theory, go check out the latest trend on TikTok. Husbands chasing their wives through their houses, down driveways, across lawns. It’s like fully-clothed foreplay. And when they catch them, hoo boy. It’s super hot.”
Curiosity gets the better of me. I reach for my phone and swipe over to the app. I type in 'couple chase’ and the results immediately fill my screen.
The first one is on a beach. The couple are beautiful – he’s handsome with a big smile, wearing a white shirt half-unbuttoned and a pair of rolled up jeans. She’s in a white dress. They’re both barefoot.
He shouts ‘go’ and she runs – like really runs. She’s not half-assing it in any way. He counts down from ten, giving her a head start, then he turns on his heels, his body a powerful predator as he runs after her, closing the distance between them despite her best efforts.
And when he’s a breath away from her, he grabs her waist, pulling her against him, both of them falling down onto the sand. There’s a split second before he kisses her hard and fast, when you can see it in her face, the heady mix of surrender and thrill.
My heart thumps a little harder. I keep scrolling.
In the next video the man looks older and broad-shouldered, in a dark gray shirt rolled to the elbows and a tailored pair of navy pants that cling to his thick thighs. And when he catches his wife, something about the movement – the grip, the heat – makes my breath hitch.
My lips part and I exhale softly. Trying to imagine being so wanted, so desired that a man would do whatever it took to take me. Not ignored, cast away. Or used as a human ATM.
I swallow hard. Because I’ve never been wanted like that.
There’s a pulse between my thighs as I watch another video. This time he’s dressed as a cop, and his wife is pretending to be a perpetrator. God, he looks mean and perfectly honed. His biceps are so huge I have no doubt they could throw anybody around.
Why does that make me feel so flustered?
Because you haven’t had sex in over three years.
I ignore the voice in my head that sounds like suspiciously like Romy. Instead, I turn off my phone as the heat curls low in my stomach.
Closing my eyes for a moment, I imagine being in that situation. Except the man isn’t some faceless TikTok husband.
He looks worryingly like Zach Fitzgerald, in a dark shirt, his sleeves rolled up, those piercing blue eyes assessing me.
A scowl pulls at his lips as he tells me I have a ten second head start.
And then he’s going to catch me. And make me regret it.
I shake my head, toss the phone onto the nightstand, and close my eyes.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I mutter, turning on my side, and trying to ignore the way my heart is pounding. “You’re losing it.”
The last thing I need is to crush on a man who makes me want to throw something every time I see him. Who thinks he’s superior and I’m mediocre.
God knows, I’ve had enough of that to last me a lifetime.