Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Seymour
Wait. What did I just say?
Did I just say the L word? My mouth goes dry. That word should only be said out loud after serious consideration, after carefully weighing every emotion, every possibility.
Do I want to deal with the inevitable break-up, the sobbing, the constant texting?
Even as I ask myself that question, warmth spreads through my chest, and my shoulders relax. I don’t regret saying it. The admission lifts a weight I didn’t know I was carrying. Instead of questioning every feeling, analyzing every moment, I’ve finally spoken the truth.
I kind of said it to Mandy.
Usually, I’d be backtracking right now, fumbling over my words to explain that’s not what I meant.
Instead, I find myself leaning forward, drawn to the way she watches me with those questioning eyes.
I want to know everything there is to know about this woman.
Beyond her favorite foods or debating art, I want to share quiet mornings over coffee, to feel her hand in mine during evening walks.
When she hurts, I want to be there. When she faces challenges, I want to stand beside her.
But one question keeps nagging at me.
I expected her to storm off after I mentioned the wealth test, after I explained about the limo and the salon. I wanted to see her true colors. As Harris said, she passed the test. My fingers drum against my thigh as I study her face in the moonlight. “Why aren’t you mad?”
She sits quietly, her blue hair catching the silver light. Her fingers trace patterns on the wooden dock, and I notice how her shoulders tense slightly. The urge to reach for her hand, to pull her close, is almost overwhelming. She said I was safe with her.
But is she safe with me?
The weight of that responsibility settles over me. I want her to feel that security, that trust. If she’s willing to give me another chance. Tell her, my mind urges.
“You’re safe with me, too,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper, the words carrying all the conviction in my heart.
Finally, she shifts, drawing in a deep breath. Her expression softens, but I notice how she bites her lower lip, a gesture I’m learning means she’s processing her thoughts.
“I am a little mad that you didn’t trust me. That you put me through that awful date.”
“Was it so bad being pampered?” I ask, genuinely wanting to understand.
“No, that wasn’t it.” She lifts her chin, her gaze direct and unwavering. “I told you. I don’t like surprises. It threw me off. I didn’t understand why you were doing it.”
“Did you ever think it’s because I care about you? I sent you flowers. I made sure you had the right lighting for your studio and new tarps.” The memory of her shed makes my jaw clench. I’d wanted to tear it down, build her a proper studio, give her everything she deserved.
“That felt different. And I appreciated those gifts. I didn’t say thank you enough.”
“You don’t need to say thank you. That’s not why I did it.
” I pause, rolling my shoulders to release some tension.
Why did I do it? Because even back then, something about her called to me in ways Anna never had.
That night on the dock, swimming in the darkness of the lake—everything shifted.
Yes, it terrified me, but only because I recognized then how much I wanted her in my life.
Tell her that. “Sometimes I know what I want and I go after it.”
“I’m not a prize,” she says sharply.
“I know that.” I reach for her hand, relieved when she doesn’t pull away. Her skin is cool against mine. The intensity of my emotions swells and grows, and I repeat what I’ve already told her. “You’re safe with me.”
The tension in her shoulders ease slightly at my words. “It would be easy to be mad and walk away after that stupid test. And then? You invited him to join us.”
“Again, I was trying to salvage the date.” My stomach tightens as I think of the paintings I saw in her studio, the careful reproductions of Silvano’s work.
I’d thought she’d be excited to have dinner with an artist she clearly studied.
I want her to trust me enough to explain those paintings, to tell me if she’s selling forgeries or if there’s another explanation.
“Not sure inviting another man to join us is the best way to save a date. What would Harris say about that?” A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth.
“I admit. Huge mistake. I’m sorry for all of it.” I lean back slightly, giving her space. The crickets chirp around us, and somewhere in the distance, a fish jumps, creating ripples across the moonlit water.
The silence stretches between us, each second marked by my increasing pulse. Sweat forms at my temples despite the cool night air.
“If you can feel safe with me, then...I want to feel safe with you.” Her voice quavers slightly.
“I want to trust you.” She meets my gaze, and the pain I see there makes my chest ache.
“There’s a reason I don’t like surprises.
” She turns away, looking out over the water, her shoulders hunching forward protectively.
“Like you, I was once almost married. I was in love and I thought it was forever.”
She falls silent, and I know instinctively this isn’t the hardest part of her story. My hands itch to pull her close, but I force myself to remain still, to let her share at her own pace.
After a deep breath, she continues. “I dated another artist. One of the most trusting thing any artist will do is share their work with the world. It’s scary.
It’s terrifying. But sometimes, sharing it with that first person is the scariest. It’s the biggest step of trust. It’s saying, here’s my baby.
Here’s something I’ve spent hours on, and you’re the first person I’m showing. ”
I notice how her voice grows thick with emotion, how her fingers twist together in her lap. Something dark and protective stirs in my chest. Whatever happened next clearly left deep scars.
Her breath catches in her throat.
“I don’t know what happened,” I say softly, trying to encourage her. My hand finds hers again, offering silent support. “But I want to know everything.”
She turns back to me, and the moonlight catches the sheen in her eyes. “He critiqued it and encouraged me, but then, weeks later, he brought me to an art gallery where a new up and coming artist was showing his work.”
A sense of dread settles over me, heavy and cold. Please don’t let this be what I think it is. Not another artist beating her to a similar concept—that happens too often in any creative field.
“He was the up-and-coming artist.” Her voice catches, and she swallows hard. “He had stolen my concept. Not the same painting, but same idea. There was my baby, up on an easel, in the spotlight. He took credit for it.”
My fingers curl into fists. The urge to find this person, to make him pay for what he did, surges through me with surprising intensity.
I’ve never considered myself violent, but right now, I want nothing more than to track him down and make him feel the same hurt he caused this beautiful woman sitting next to me.
“And worse?” Her voice shakes. “He didn’t understand why I broke it off. He felt like he was doing it for us. That it was for our future. That we were a team. He didn’t see it as stealing my work.”
“Look at me,” I say, my voice gentle but firm.
Even if we don’t last, she needs to hear this.
I reach out, tucking her hair behind her ears, my touch deliberately soft.
“Mandy, he knew exactly what he was doing. Any artist knows and understands what it means to steal concepts and ideas. Any halfway decent human being would too. That’s why there are corporate spies. He was gaslighting you.”
Unable to resist any longer, I pull her into my arms. She feels small against my chest, and I hold her close, wishing I could somehow erase the pain of that betrayal. After a few minutes, she shifts in my embrace, and I let her pull away.
“It’s okay,” she says, straightening her shoulders. “It was years ago.”
“It’s not okay. Not any part of that is okay.” My jaw clenches as I think of all the ways I could expose this fraud, make him pay for what he did. “What’s his name?” She studies my face, probably noting my rigid posture and the edge in my voice. “Which artist?”
“The name of the guy doesn’t matter. I’m just letting you know that’s why I don’t like surprises. It brings back horrible memories. That’s why I drank too much champagne. I left because of a killer headache. Anyway, I have trust issues, too.”
“How about we take this slowly, then. A day, a week, at a time.” I wonder if the Pretty Woman test has damaged things irreparably. After what she’s been through, it might have confirmed her worst fears about trust.
She releases a long breath. “I like you. I like kissing you. I just need time. I just need to get through this event tomorrow night. Then I’ll be able to think clearly.”
“I understand. I’ll be there with you tomorrow night every step of the way.”
The drive home feels longer than usual, my mind replaying our conversation. Something feels unfinished, like there were words left unsaid, apologies that didn’t quite reach far enough.
Of course, I noticed she didn’t return the I love you. She said, I like you. I like kissing you. The words echo in my head, falling far short of what I’d hoped to hear.
Even if we don’t have a future, I’ll support the art gallery and show her daily that she can trust me.
I park outside my home, my hand hovering over my phone.
One quick search could probably reveal the artist’s identity.
Just need to know who she dated five years ago. Scott would know. Maybe Barrie.
Lost in thought, I unlock my door and step inside. A rustling sound from my home office breaks through my preoccupation. What? I slip off my shoes silently, moving toward the noise. Someone has bypassed my security system.