Chapter 13 #2
“Hmm.” I lean against the doorframe, my tired mind trying to process this. That is strange. It was more than just his art studio, and it doesn’t seem like a random burglary. The deliberate marking of that specific painting...
Diana clears her throat, drawing my attention back. “Seymour had a great idea that you two should follow through on it over the lunch break.”
“Oh?” I try to keep my voice casual, but my heart picks up speed. With all my new insight into Seymour and the fact I need to apologize, I’m not sure a car ride alone anywhere is the best thing. Would it give me enough time to explain, to make him understand?
“Yes, we’re heading to Beachside Java to talk to Scott about doing some security detail the night of the event.”
Yup. So that’s what happens.
After a short, uncomfortable ride with Seymour to Beachside Java, I’m now sitting at a table with Scott and Seymour. The familiar smell of coffee and grilled cheese fills the air, but does nothing to ease the tension.
You might be wondering if Seymour and I had a heart-to-heart on the way over. Nope, we didn’t. Because Harris joined us, sliding into the backseat like a silent shadow. He’s not at this meeting, but he’s at the bar working on something, his presence a constant reminder of Seymour’s rules.
Seymour really doesn’t want to be alone with me.
“I’m listening,” Scott says, his attention focused on me. His posture is stiff, professional, but I can tell by his clipped tone that he’s doing this for me. He doesn’t really like Seymour.
“Well, we have this event coming up.” I run my finger along the rim of my water glass, trying to organize my thoughts. “It’s a big event. It’s really important for the gallery, and the artist is kind of a big deal. We want him to feel safe, like his art is protected.”
“You want a security detail for his artwork?” Scott asks, his eyebrows rising slightly. He understands though. To artists, their work is as precious as any jewel.
“Yes and no. We want him to feel safe.” The words aren’t coming out right, and I know exactly why.
Seymour’s presence beside me is like a physical force.
Just being aware of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, the warmth radiating from his body just a foot away, has my thoughts scattered.
“What exactly are you looking for?” Scott’s frustration edges into his voice. “Are you talking a one-on-one bodyguard or someone at each painting?”
Suddenly, Seymour’s hand covers mine on the table. His palm is warm and the contact sends a jolt through my entire body. Heat floods my cheeks. Surely everyone can see this new awareness I have of him.
“Do you mind?” he asks, his voice gentle.
I manage a nod, words completely failing me.
He removes his hand, leaving my skin tingling, but I’m grateful for the distance. It helps clear my head, even as part of me misses the contact.
Seymour straightens in his chair, and I watch the transformation.
His jaw sets firmly, his eyes taking on that steely determination I’ve seen before.
But now I recognize it for what it is. Not just arrogance, but genuine leadership.
I fight to keep my thoughts on track and not go to inappropriate places, imagining him using that commanding presence in… other situations.
“We’ll want full security detail,” he states, voice firm and professional. “One guard for every room, undercover. To everyone else, they will be another art enthusiast. We’ll need one who monitors Eugene specifically.”
“Is that excessive?” Scott asks, running a hand through his hair.
I know why he’s asking. His company, Lakeside Detective, doesn’t have that kind of manpower readily available. He’ll have to scramble to make it work, but this could be his breakthrough. He could get references as security detail for other high-profile events.
“No.” I lean forward, trying to convey my certainty to Scott. “It’s exactly what we need.”
I catch a flicker of something in Seymour’s eyes. Approval? His gaze meets mine briefly, and my heart does that familiar dance. What is this new thing between us?
It scares me.
14
Mandy
Believe it or not, Seymour makes it impossible for me to be alone with him.
He brings Harris along everywhere, like a puppy dog who can’t be left alone.
I notice the careful orchestration. Harris appearing just as I approach Seymour’s office, materializing in doorways when we discuss the upcoming event for Eugene.
The way Seymour positions himself across rooms, maintaining careful distance.
It has to be the rules.
Seymour’s rules.
I wonder if he has a rule against hearing an apology? Maybe. I wouldn’t doubt it at this point.
It doesn’t help that I’m running on a high and fumes simultaneously. High, because of painting. Fumes, because I’m painting into the early morning. I know I can’t keep this pace up. But I’m painting again. Like really painting again.
Sometimes, when I enter the shed, a sob escapes before I can stop it.
The familiar scent of oils and turpentine hits me, and my hands shake as I squeeze fresh paint onto the palette.
There were times when I wondered if Todd had stolen my creativity and muse forever.
If I’d ever feel this way again. This burning need to create that makes me forget about sleep, about food, about anything but getting the images in my head onto canvas.
Passionate.
Driven.
Obsessed.
The nights I spend painting pass by in a blur.
I start after dinner, and suddenly I’m blinking at my phone showing 3 AM.
Paint streaks my arms. I’ve gone through canvas after canvas, each one getting closer but not quite there.
Nothing is quite right yet, but I can feel it building.
In the tingle in my fingers when I pick up a brush, in the quick flutter of my heart when I mix a new color combination.
This is how I felt in the days leading up to perfecting my last idea. The one Todd—or I should say Alexander Silvano—makes millions on. But I refuse to let those thoughts derail me. Every painting I cast aside isn’t wasted. Each one brings me closer to what I’m trying to capture.
During the days, I focus on my job, but my mind constantly drifts to my studio.
I rush through dinner each night, barely tasting it, just to get back to painting.
The upcoming Eugene event feels distant, secondary.
Of course I care, but this creative surge has consumed me. This is Seymour’s event anyway.
Speaking of Seymour. He catches me as I’m heading out at closing time.
“Mandy?”
I freeze at the sound of his voice. My heart immediately kicks up its pace, and I have to curl my fingers into my palms to steady myself.
His presence fills the gallery space. Not just physically, but in the way the air seems to charge when he’s near.
Like a gathering storm about to break. The prickles that tease my body.
The way when I see him now, I see his heart, beating, tender, and soft.
The way his gaze peruses over me as if I’m a puzzle and the way my body responds.
I want to be back at the lake. I want to be swimming in the water with him.
I want to hold on to him and feel his back. I want to eat grilled cheese and talk.
My perception has completely changed.
It only took a couple of moments. The night at the lake and the art lesson. That’s it. In those moments, I saw the Seymour Black that he hides from the world.
I never would have thought that it would be him to make me feel this way again about a man, but I’m thinking it’s just a side effect of the art. That’s plausible. Right?
“Mandy?” he repeats.
I realize I’ve been standing here silent. “Yes, do you need something?” My voice comes out surprisingly steady.
He studies me, head tilted slightly, brows drawn together. “I thought you might want to finalize the details about the event for Eugene. It’s in two weeks.”
“Yes, I’d love to.” Of course I would, but this is his event. I’ve been trying to stay out of his plans, hoping he’ll do the same for mine. Though he still hasn’t told me which artist he’s chosen for me.
We head upstairs to the staff room. Seymour leans against the counter of the small built-in kitchen, his tall frame relaxed but somehow still commanding the space.
“The tickets have already gone on sale. Twenty bucks a pop.”
I know this. Do I agree? Yes and no. We have completely different visions for the gallery. I watch him as he continues talking.
“When people spend money to gain access to an event, it brings in the serious spenders. Maybe fewer people, but it weeds out the gawkers or the ones just looking for something to do on a Friday night. If they’ve already invested, they’ll want to walk away with something for their investment.”
“I’m sure you’re right, but—”
“Wait, did you just agree with me?” The corner of his mouth twitches, almost forming a smile.
“I wouldn’t go that far.” I find myself fighting an answering smile.
“I’m sure your business principles are correct.
It’s just not what I would do, but I want the gallery to stay open.
Not only that, but thrive. I’m willing to try anything.
” And whatever you do, I’ll top it with my event, because I like to win.
“Anything?” His eyebrow raises slightly.
“Yup.” Now, Mandy, apologize! It is the perfect time. His constant shadow isn’t here. We’re alone, but it doesn’t feel right to mix something personal with a business discussion. My fingers fidget with the hem of my shirt as I struggle with the urge to clear the air between us.