Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Mandy
I can’t find words to describe how I felt in Seymour’s arms, the solid warmth of his body next to mine, his steady heartbeat against my back.
He held me with a gentleness that made me feel cherished, protected.
While my mind raced with thoughts of police interviews and murder investigations, his presence anchored me to the present moment.
He didn’t take advantage of the situation at all.
Not that I would have minded some stolen kisses, but his restraint, his focus on simply being there for me, showed me exactly what I needed.
It was one of the most intimate moments I’ve had with a guy.
I thought I was in love with Todd, AKA Alexander Silvano, but what I’ve experienced with Seymour in the past month makes those memories feel hollow.
The delicious kisses that leave me dizzy, yes, but more than that.
The way he looks at me like he wants to know every detail of my life story, the way he notices what I need before I even realize it myself.
And Seymour Black was the last person I expected to feel this way with.
This was Seymour, the supposedly cold, impersonal billionaire who spent his time sitting on boards, figuring out how to give away his money. The guy who made Grace’s jaw clench whenever his name came up, who Scott dismissed with a wave of his hand.
But they haven’t seen the Seymour I’ve seen.
They missed how he stepped between me and Darren, his voice carrying quiet authority that would stand no argument.
They weren’t there when he sat with Jerry, drawing out smiles through patient questions and genuine interest. They didn’t see him in my kitchen, moving with surprising domesticity as he made breakfast, his attention fully focused on my account of the police interview.
They haven’t felt the gentle but urgent pressure of his kisses, haven’t experienced the way he makes the rest of the world fade away.
Plain and simple, they don’t know the man I’m getting to know.
On Tuesday, when I arrived home from the gallery, exhausted from a day of planning and worry, the most gorgeous flowers waited on my doorstep.
The delivery man must have just left them.
The bouquet burst with life. Warm yellows, vibrant reds, and bright oranges nestled among sprigs of green.
Each bloom looked like it had been carefully selected from a mountain meadow, still carrying that wild, natural beauty.
They transformed my kitchen, filling it with color and a subtle, sweet fragrance.
For precious moments while I arranged them in my favorite vase, I forgot about everything else.
Everything like the possible murders.
Like the gallery’s uncertain future. Like the fact that I have to plan an event for Alexander Silvano, the man who had stolen my ideas and used them as stepping stones to his own success.
On Wednesday, Seymour picks me up from work, his eyes bright with anticipation as he tells me to pack my swimsuit.
He arrives with takeout from Beachside Java—Jamie’s signature grilled cheese wrapped carefully in foil to keep warm—and we spend the evening at the boathouse.
We sit close together at the end of the dock, sharing dinner while the setting sun turns the lake into shades of pink and gold.
The day has been scorching, but out here on the water, the evening brings welcome relief.
We sit on the dock, our feet in the cool water and talk.
We talk about nearly everything except the gallery and the upcoming event with Silvano.
The conversation flows easily, naturally.
It’s more than nice—it’s a chance to breathe, to exist in a moment uncomplicated by the pressure building around me.
The weight of Alexander Silvano’s upcoming show at our gallery seems distant here.
A part of me wants to tell Seymour about my new designs, to share the brilliant night skies that are anything but black and shades of blue.
But when I open my mouth to speak of them, terror seizes my throat, closing off the words before they can escape.
The memory of the last time I’d shared my art with someone I trusted, someone I thought I loved, rises up like a wall between us.
We talk about our parents instead. Mine, loving and supportive, always ready with encouragement or comfort food.
His, emotionally absent, more concerned with appearances than connection.
He speaks about them with practiced casualness, his voice steady, but I notice the way his fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the dock when he mentions his father.
Everything about Seymour—his careful control, his protective shell, the rare moments when his guard drops—suddenly makes more sense.
I understand Seymour Black to a much greater degree that night.
The evening ends with a kiss that starts gentle, his lips brushing mine with tender hesitation. But then his fingers slide into my hair, cradling my face, and the kiss deepens into something more passionate, more urgent.
His thumb traces my jawline as our lips dance together, sending shivers down my spine.
My hands find their way to his chest, and I can feel his heartbeat racing beneath my palm, matching my own frantic rhythm.
The world narrows to just this. The softness of his lips, the warmth of his touch, the intoxicating way he pulls me closer.
When we finally break apart, both breathless, I’m dizzy with wanting more.
Before saying goodnight, he presses his forehead to mine and murmurs, “I used every ounce of self-control I have not to spend the evening with your lips pressed to mine. I can’t get enough of you.”
His words send warmth spreading through my chest, making my already racing heart skip a beat. I feel the same way, crave his kisses, his touch, his presence. But hearing him admit it, hearing the slight roughness in his voice as he confesses his desire, makes everything inside me melt.
On Thursday, I arrive home from work, my mind still spinning with gallery preparations, when a delivery truck pulls up.
The driver steps out with what turns out to be a set of special lights for the studio and several tarps.
They’re professional grade, the kind I’ve only dreamed of owning.
The delivery man asks permission to set them up, so I unlock the shed, watching as he carefully installs them in exactly the right spots.
After he leaves, I sit in silence, basking in the perfect, even glow they cast upon my workspace.
How do I even begin to say thank you for a gift like that?
Everyone knows I’m an artist—it’s not exactly a secret—but I rarely speak about my dreams, my real ambitions, the tools I wish I had.
Yet somehow Seymour had seen past my casual mentions of painting, had noticed what my makeshift studio lacked during his brief visit.
He’d seen what I needed without my having to say a word.
And he never asked about what would look like the Silvano imitations stacked in the corner.
I haven’t offered an explanation either.
On Friday, my day off, he arrives with two electric bikes, grinning at my surprised expression.
They’re the kind where I can pedal normally but press Boost when the hills get too steep—which, given my distinct lack of athletic ability, I appreciate more than I can say.
The day spreads out before us, perfect with its cloud-scattered sky and warm breeze that carries the scent of summer grass.
We spend it together.
Our picnic spot is a field dotted with wildflowers, the grass soft beneath the blanket he’s brought.
We feast on tiny, precisely cut sandwiches and chunks of fresh watermelon that burst with sweetness.
I find myself studying him, wanting to memorize every detail.
The way the breeze ruffles his dark hair, how his shoulders finally relax as we settle into conversation.
“Favorite food?” he asks, popping a grape into his mouth.
I laugh, the sound carrying across the field. “Do you really need to ask that question?”
“Right. Grilled cheese.” He leans back on his elbows, his shirt pulling tight across his chest. “Most wouldn’t pick grilled cheese.”
“Memories.” I pick at a blade of grass. “My mom often made it for me when I had a bad day. She understood the difficulties of being creative. And you?”
“Sweet potato fries. Homemade. With just the right amount of olive oil and spices, baked to tender perfection.”
“Ooh, yummy.”
He smiles, and the expression transforms his entire face.
The usual sharp angles soften, and tiny crinkles appear at the corners of his eyes.
It’s different from his public smile, the one he uses at gallery events and board meetings.
This one reaches his eyes, makes them sparkle with genuine warmth.
I realize he doesn’t often smile around most people.
I like to think that smile is reserved just for me.
But secretly, I’m pretty sure it’s one of his rules.
“I’ll make them for you someday,” he promises. “Perfect with grilled steak.”
“Scariest insect?” I ask, changing topics with playful randomness.
“Definitely spiders.” He shudders slightly, and I hide my smile at this crack in his usual composure. “The way they hover in the corners of your homes and you never know when they’ll appear or are sitting there watching you.”
“Hmm. Interesting. Not sure I want to psychoanalyze that one.”
“Please, don’t.” His lips quirk into a smirk. “You’d get lost down a rabbit hole.”
“The housefly,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “I mean the big, fat loud ones that seem to follow you around the house until the point where you think they have something out for you. And they’re just about impossible to kill.” I add, “That’s what the spiders are for.”
“I’ll give you that.” He lays down, patting the space beside him in invitation.