Chapter 17
seventeen
VAL
Amantha’s building was old, but clean. The stairwell smelled of industrial cleaners and the faint scent of a pizza delivery. Having insisted that Amantha keep my jacket, I followed her navy form.
A nervous tug in my stomach increased with each floor we climbed. Thankfully, she stopped on the third floor. Unlocking the door, Amantha glanced over her shoulder at me.
“I know it’s late, but would you like some coffee? I’m afraid I’m fresh out of earl gray tea, your highness.” She stepped inside, mischief evident in the quirk of her grin.
“I guess I’ll just have to survive like a peasant then.” I heaved a dramatic sigh.
Amantha kicked off her sodden sneakers into a drippy pile as I turned to survey the tiny studio apartment. For some reason, it felt like Amantha. Classic. Unfussed. It helped that it smelled like her too.
Or didn’t help.
Could rainwater shrink collared shirts?
I slipped a finger into my collar and tugged.
A small kitchenette was nestled into a corner beside a small table and two chairs. The only other notable furniture in the open space was a large bed with a fluffy white comforter and way too many throw pillows. What was it with women and so many throw pillows?
Amantha took out two mugs, loaded a coffee pod, and pushed a button on her Keurig machine. She headed toward a door beside the bed, but hesitated. Her conflicted expression flitted over my damp clothes.
“I’m going to change into something dry. I’m sorry, but I don’t think I have anything that would fit you. Well, I mean, there’s this.” Her pink fingernails slowly pulled down the zipper of my navy jacket. Pausing halfway, she slipped it off a slender shoulder and inspected the interior.
I laser focused on the wall just above her, ignoring the periphery of her rain-soaked shirt. Heat crept up my neck.
Amantha continued, unaware as always. “This jacket is pretty wet, but there is a dryer downstairs—”
“I’ll be fine,” I cut in smoothly. “I’m almost dry now anyway.” I looked down at my shockingly translucent shirt.
Welp. That’s that.
An aggressive heat reddened my cheeks.
Amantha offered a shy smile. “Okay, I’ll be right back. Um, make yourself at home, I guess.” The locking door offered her some privacy as I wandered the apartment.
“How am I supposed to make myself at home?” I called. “You have no couch. What kind of adult doesn’t own a couch?”
Her laugh was muffled. “I never realized that. I mean, this place is temporary while Anthony is in Europe. I usually relax on my bed.” A pause. “And I do own a couch, you jerk. It just doesn’t happen to be here.”
I chuckled and shook my head. The apartment was almost devoid of decoration. Only a few china plates hung next to a brilliant portrait of a hummingbird. I stepped closer, examining the beautiful art.
Good taste. But these plates?
I gently brushed my finger along a flourished porcelain rim. Beautiful, but they felt out of place, too gaudy for Amantha to have chosen them. They must have held some sentimental purpose though, because Amantha didn’t seem like a commercial, trinket-type person.
As if to prove my point, the only other personal item was a picture frame beside Amantha’s bed.
I grinned at Amantha’s arms wrapped around a young boy.
Her face wore the most joyful smile I had ever seen on her.
The resemblance between them was striking, though her son’s mischievous eyes were blue, not gray.
Cute kid. Beautiful mother.
I sighed. I was in trouble.
Said “trouble” walked out of the closet a few moments later.
I clenched my jaw to prevent it from dropping.
Did she ever not look attractive? Amantha wore a purple Minnesota Vikings jersey, sweatpants, and fuzzy white socks pulled over the cuffs.
Her face had been washed clean, now free of the wandering mascara.
Adorable, yet sexy. No amount of fabric could conceal the hints of her curves. Her wavy hair had dried soft and fluffy. I suddenly itched to rake my fingers through it.
This was worse than Rick’s closet. Much, much worse.
Amantha saw the picture still frozen in my hand. “Cute, right?” Her luminous eyes shone the way they always did when she talked about Anthony.
Amantha sidled right up next to me, and I tried desperately to ignore her proximity—and the meadow scent that followed.
“We took that on his ninth birthday. He convinced me to go paintballing with his friends. The little turd wouldn’t stop chasing me.” Her eyes turned sad.
“You miss him,” I said.
Amantha simply nodded. “Coffee?”
She swapped out the full mug and put another pod in the coffee machine for herself. The wooden chair scraped against hardwood as I sat down, and Amantha placed a steaming mug in front of me.
“So, the Vikings, huh?”
“Oh.” Amantha looked down. “Yeah, it was my dad’s. I grew up going to their games. Guess I became a bandwagon fan.” The lining of sadness in her expression implied there was more to the story. “He passed away last January.”
Her sudden declaration hung in the air between us.
The haunted expression she wore was one I’d seen many times, but only in the mirror. One of loss, grief, and an ache that would never be quite right again.
“We…” Amantha swallowed. “We weren’t expecting it—my mom and I.
He had a heart attack and died in surgery.
” The moisture lining her eyes looked like liquid silver.
“I’m an only child, so it’s just me and my mom now.
He was our everything. A stern talking-to and a hug when you needed it—” Her voice cracked.
A protective surge in my chest reacted again to the sight of Amantha’s tears. I didn’t want this woman to hurt. To cry. I felt helpless. Because more than anyone, I knew words were futile when it came to death. No amount of “sorry” could resurrect.
My hand reached for her without my permission. On a whim, I redirected it to the sleeve of her jersey. My fingers slid over the silky fabric as I inspected the embroidered logo across her upper arm. My gaze met hers, an unrecognizable emotion now accompanying her tears in those hypnotic eyes.
“He sounds like quite a man.”
Amantha nodded. “He was.”
I forced myself to let go. “Thank you for telling me. You didn’t need to.”
“I wanted to. I wanted you to know that I get it. Well, at least somewhat. I know he was only my dad and not my spouse—”
“Loss is loss, Amantha,” I cut in, frustrated by her self-deprecation and my inability to brush away the tear still lingering on her cheek. “Don’t do that to yourself.”
“Do what?” she asked.
“Discount yourself. Your feelings. Yours matter as much as mine do.”
Amantha blew out a long breath. “How do you always know what to say? Like with Vanessa in the park. I guess I’m surprised you always seem to get it right.”
I gave her a soft smile. “I’ve spent far too long saying the wrong things to you—it’s about time I start getting things right.”
The pink flush on Amantha’s cheeks was downright adorable. The urge to cradle them both in my hands felt overwhelming.
Change the subject.
“I actually like the Vikings,” I said. “My nephews and I go to their games all the time. They completely lost their minds when we beat the Green Bay Packers.” My mouth curled into a grin as I lifted my coffee mug. “The Packers suck.”
Amantha’s eyebrows hitched, though a blazing heat in her gray eyes ignited like flint on steel. That expression rendered me senseless, and I was nothing if not a wasteland in a drought, ready to go up in flames.
“The Packers do suck,” she murmured. “Another red flag of Ryan’s I should have noticed.”
The Keurig machine chirped and disrupted the moment. Amantha got up to get her coffee, swirling cream into it. She sat down and sipped it.
“We need to make a plan,” I said weakly.
“Yeah, but how in the world are we going to find the painting?”
“Let’s focus on the short term. There has to be a paper trail bigger than just that accession form. I can keep digging and see what I find.”
“I can watch for any suspicious activity from Blythe and Kendra.”
“It’s a start.”
“I really don’t think it’s Blythe, though,” Amantha said. “She’s no criminal mastermind.”
“How would you know? Isn’t it usually the crazy ones?”
Her scornful glare had me backpedaling quickly. “Sorry, sorry, I know she’s your boss and you love her.”
Amantha’s eyes narrowed, though her lips twitched with amusement. “Kendra seems much more likely to be involved. Doesn’t she sign off on all pieces coming in or out of the museum? And oversee the verification process? I mean, Kendra has access.”
I thoughtfully rubbed my chin, irritated by the prickles I found. No matter how clean my shave was in the morning, my facial hair grew thickly by nightfall—like a stubborn chia pet.
“You watch for leads and let me know if anything suspicious is going on. I’ll go back to the database and start digging. I guess we’ll go from there,” I said.
“You do know this is nuts, right? We’re not detectives! But I get your point. It would be terrible if this got out. And losing my job isn’t an option.” An unexplained flash of fear pierced her eyes, but it vanished as soon as it began.
Amantha retrieved a laptop from the kitchen counter. Abandoning her coffee and settling on her bed, she began to type.
“I’m just now realizing that this whole situation is a ticking time bomb. If I was able to identify it as a forgery with a naked eye, how long will it be until someone else does too? I mean, come look at this!” She mindlessly patted the bed next to her.
I struggled to ignore the mental pictures flashing through my brain as I joined her on the plush mattress.
“May I?” I waited for her nod, then took the laptop. Lake Attersee filled the screen. The differences were significant, now that I knew what to look for. The miniscule lily was precisely the shade of whipped butter. The dock’s corner had no perceptible brush strokes. This was bad. Very bad.
It’s only a matter of time until this gets out.
It was my turn to panic, the pressure of the situation finally dawning on me.
My throat sealed shut as my lungs did that dumb water-boarding thing again. The apartment began to undulate on the edges of my vision. I clapped the laptop closed, setting it on the floor. My breathing sped, hard and heavy.
All that work. All this time.
“Val?” Amantha’s distant voice sounded alarmed. “You okay?”
I waved her off, humiliated, trying to remember what words were to assure her everything was fine.
My chest continued to heave, but each breath was devoid of oxygen.
A blurry Amantha darted across the room and filled a glass with water.
Forcing it into my cramping hands, she instructed me firmly to drink it.
The glass felt like ice against my fingers.
Cool water gushed down my tight throat.
Oxygen began to seep back into my panting chest, though my body still trembled. I watched Amantha sit back on the bed, though much closer this time. The heat from her small shoulder grazed mine.
“My dad used to have panic attacks too. My mom taught me the five senses could help. Cold water usually works wonders.” Her soft voice sounded understanding, not a trace of judgment. Not a hint that she found me as pathetic as I felt.
Much to my utter astonishment, Amantha reached over, grasped one of my hands, and pulled it onto her lap. Using her small, ivory fingers, she began to gently massage my clenched fist until it relaxed, my fingers blossoming open again.
My breath caught in my throat. I tried to hold perfectly still, as though a butterfly had landed and I didn’t want to frighten it away. But something told me that the woman beside me didn’t scare easily.
Amantha trailed her pink fingernails down each of my fingers, swirled around, then traced the ridges of my palm.
It felt incredible, her touch so soothing.
No one had been this gentle, this kind, with me in a long time. It pricked my eyes, to be honest, but I swallowed the emotion. No way was I letting her see me blubber like an idiot right now.
“Touch helps too,” she murmured. Without looking up, she whispered, “Is this okay?”
I nodded until I realized she couldn’t see me.
“Yes.” My throaty voice came out huskier than I would have liked. Her eyes flew to mine, that familiar silver blaze resuming its fire. Amantha continued stroking my hand.
“Good.” Her gaze wandered briefly to my lips before meeting mine again.
At that look in her eyes, a rush of heat emerged in my chest, radiating to the fingertips she still held.
I knew, in that moment, that my island of loneliness was already long gone. My racing heart filled my veins with blood.
With life.
I felt alive. I hadn’t died with Stella.
Life in technicolor now stretched before me. No matter what the outcome, whether Amantha reciprocated these terrifying, exhilarating feelings or not, I would always thank her for that. But in this awe-filled moment, I knew it was time to move on.
So I turned, careful not to upset the hand that was still in her possession.
My heart hammered wildly at the decisive line I was about to cross. With my free hand, I used my scorching fingertips to catch her chin, angling her beautiful face up to mine. Leaning closer, I searched deeply inside those silver flames.
Amantha’s startled breath mingled with the whisper from my lips.
“Is this okay?”
Amantha trembled, though the intensity of her stare didn’t waver. “Yes.”
The hushed word had barely crossed her lips before mine were on hers, surrendering completely.