Chapter 12 #2
Later that night, I’m in my study, surrounded by my uncle’s paintings.
Maybe I should have Mandy appraise these paintings.
Maybe they could be auctioned off at the gallery.
Then there’s the one painting by Alexander Silvano hanging above my desk.
The colors seem to shift in the dim light.
He’s brilliant. I don’t care what Mandy says, I think he’s worth pursuing.
If I can’t convince him, then I’m not sure anyone can.
I sink into my leather chair, the material cool against my back. My fingers drum against the desk as realization settles in my gut.
I know I’m in trouble.
I care too much. About the gallery. About Mandy. That’s never a good sign. If Mandy even knew the power she had over me, how my heart rate picks up when she enters a room, how I find myself watching for her reaction to everything I say. I’ve only felt this way one other time, and it was a disaster.
It’s rare I think about Anna, but tonight, as the clock ticks past midnight, I let myself remember.
THREE YEARS AGO
It’s a hot summer evening, and a friend is having one of many parties on his yacht. The polished deck gleams under string lights, the air heavy with salt spray and expensive perfume. I don’t want to be there, but Philip begged me to come because there was someone he wanted me to meet.
“Not a date of any kind,” he promises, over and over, his voice eager. “You don’t even have to talk to her,” he says. “I promise you’ll want to.”
So I go. Maybe it’s because I was bored. Maybe because sometimes the silence of my house becomes too much.
I grab a drink and lean against the railing, observing people in my social circle get drunk. The ice clinks in my glass as I watch them, their laughter carrying across the deck. Not for me, and I’m already regretting my decision to be here.
Then I see her.
I’ve never felt such a visual reaction to someone before.
She waltzes onto the deck, and I’m not sure where she has been hiding before now.
She has cropped blonde hair that catches the golden light, a slim, athletic build, and the emerald green dress that clings to her body just about does me in. My fingers tighten around my glass.
I wait. I watch as she flings guys to the right and left.
Men try to talk to her, to engage, but she dips her toes into the shallow waters of conversation, then she casts them aside.
Like she knows within seconds whether she wants to continue the relationship.
Each rejection is delivered with grace, but firm.
I like that in a woman, one who can make decisions.
Eventually, she leans against the railing a few feet away. “Hey, stranger,” she says. Her smile about knocks me into the water. Perfect white teeth, red lips, confidence radiating from every pore.
“Hey, back.” The smile comes easily and naturally when I’m with her. Something that hasn’t happened in years.
“I’m Anna.” Her voice carries a hint of amusement, like she knows exactly what effect she has.
“Seymour.” Most people know who I am. Most people know what I do, but it helps when I don’t say my last name. I wait for the recognition to dawn in her eyes, but it doesn’t come.
It starts shallow, and I never once see her waver and want to escape the conversation.
It flows like a river. Sometimes fast. Sometimes slow.
But never awkward. The ease between us is almost immediate.
The electric charge present from the moment I saw her makes my skin tingle whenever she moves closer.
It ends up being me and Anna in a bubble, a world of our own.
The party continues around us—glasses clinking, music playing, laughter echoing across the water—but we’re in our own space.
No one bothers us, and the hours pass like lightning.
Next thing I know, it’s early in the morning, the rosy tint of dawn appearing, and we’re still talking.
Yes, we’ve moved closer. Impossibly close.
I say, “Let’s grab coffee in a couple of days.”
We exchange numbers and promise to text.
We meet a few days later, and I’m thinking the charge between us might have been in my imagination. It might have been the drinks and the party atmosphere. The heat of a summer evening playing tricks with my head.
But no.
She walks into the coffee shop in a blue sundress, more innocent than the night we met, and once again, I’m bowled over.
My coffee grows cold as we talk for hours.
We date for a year, falling deeper and deeper in love every time we’re together.
Each date, each moment together feels perfect, scripted almost.
She cracked my shell quickly. It was something about her openness and honesty, how she seemed to share everything so freely. I laid it all out for her. That’s not easy for me to do, but with her, it felt right. Like finally finding someone who understood.
The next summer, I convince my friend to let us use the yacht for a private date night. The same place we met. I propose under the stars, the ring burning a hole in my pocket all evening. She accepts with tears in her eyes.
We both say how it was love at first sight. The perfect story. The perfect couple.
It’s a week before the wedding. Harris convinces me to introduce a prenup. His voice serious as he says I’d be crazy not to. The papers sit heavy in my briefcase for days before I bring them out.
I’m nervous before the meeting, my palms sweating as I explain the necessity, but I’m not sure Anna realizes how much I’m worth. Harris is right. She signs it no problem, her pen scratching across the paper without hesitation.
It’s the night before the wedding, and she returns the ring. She calls it off, because she can’t possibly marry someone who doesn’t trust her.
And she did it in a letter. The expensive stationery feeling like sandpaper under my fingers as I read her words again and again.
She couldn’t even do it face-to-face.
I don’t think about Anna that often anymore, but the lessons I learned are ingrained on my heart. No smiling. It’s too personal. It makes one vulnerable. Never be alone with an attractive woman. No coffee dates. No exchanging phone numbers.
I wrote those rules on the date of our then-cancelled wedding, sitting alone in what should have been our honeymoon suite.
I’ve been safe and protected ever since.
Until now. Until Mandy. With her fierce independence and honest reactions, her ability to see through my carefully constructed walls.
Not like I’m in love or anything. But I want to spend time with her. I want her phone number. I want to text late into the night and early in the morning. I want to talk to her. I want to know what makes her paint, what drives her passion for art.
Enough. Stop thinking about her.
I pivot in my chair and go through the paintings again. The moonlight filtering through the windows casts shadows across the canvases. I do some research online for the artists, the blue light of my laptop the only illumination in the room.
It’s at about midnight when I hear a knock on the front door. The sound echoes through the quiet house.
I walk to the door. There’s no one there, but I find a letter on the doorstep. The paper is crisp and white against the dark wood.
It’s simple.
You have something that doesn’t belong to you.
The words send a chill down my spine, and for once, I’m glad for the emptiness of my house. At least no one else is at risk.