Chapter 18
FISHER
Pulling up to the firehouse, a sudden buzz of nerves rolls through me as I parallel park my G Wagon.
I haven’t seen Lila since our wedding day, and although we’ve texted, I’m unsure how to act around my fake wife—especially now that everyone knows we’re married, thanks to the announcement in the New York Times.
My father has left me multiple messages, insisting I call him back…each voicemail revealing another crack forming in his calm, composed veneer.
My mother has called once. I answered her call out of guilt, but that soon melted away when all she said was that the announcement embarrassed her, and she was offended that we didn't use her personal designer to coordinate our wedding attire.
Oh, and it was all my fault that my father doubled his dose of blood pressure medication.
No questions about my wife, or hint of sadness at not being present for her youngest son’s wedding.
I shouldn’t be surprised, but I can’t help but wonder how Lila’s friends have taken the news in comparison to my family. Even with the exciting news I received this morning, I’m nervous to meet them. It’s important to me that her people like me.
Taking one last glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror, I check that my hair looks decent and I don’t have any blemishes on my face.
My hair is still in place from the gel I used this morning before our flight from Seattle to San Francisco, and my skin is clear despite sweating my ass off this week during the first round of playoffs.
We’re tied with Seattle so far, one to one.
And the next two games are on home ice, so hopefully we can come out ahead.
“You’ve got this,” I tell myself as I grab the atrocious gift I made for Lila and slide out of my vehicle.
The door to the firehouse is propped open, so I walk right inside before I can think too much.
Music hums through the space, Yoyoma I believe, and every artist in the room is fluttering around their station.
The large space is lit only by the sunshine coming through the massive windows and the garage door that completely opens up one full wall—probably where the fire trucks used to exit and enter.
I can easily see why the artists love the vibe here.
The whole room is bright and open, and everyone can see each other and converse easily with their neighbors.
“Can I help you?” A woman asks, her station closest to the door I came in through. She’s carving something into a giant hunk of marble.
“Yes, I’m here to see…” I trail off, my breath catching in my throat as my eyes land on Lila.
Her station is at the back of the room, close to the open garage door.
Her back is to me as she sweeps a paint brush across her canvas.
Her body blocks what she’s working on. I’m able to take her in without her knowledge.
She’s relaxed, her body swaying with her brush, her shoulders sweeping to the music.
The breeze drifting in from the open door blows wisps of her shiny black hair around her shoulders.
“Wait a minute,” the woman in front of me says, startling me out of my Lila trance. I turn back to her and she squints, studying me. “Aren’t you Archibald Fisher?”
“Uhh,” my mouth hangs open, stumped for a response, because while Lila said her friends had questions about me, she didn’t tell me how she answered them.
Thankfully, Lila turns to look at us, and before the woman can quiz me further, she scoots off her stool and strides toward me, smiling. “Fisher, you made it back.”
I relax, taking her in. She’s wearing a white apron covered in paint splotches over an indigo blue dress with lace straps. Her hair is down, her face makeup free, and her skin glows with a dewy, healthy shine.
She takes my breath away.
I blink, telling myself to calm the hell down.
Lila is my friend; our marriage is fake.
I don’t know what’s gotten into me. Even the whole time I was traveling, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
I’m never like this with women. I enjoy my time with them, and that’s it.
Their smiles don’t linger in my mind, I don’t get hints of their scent when I’m walking down the street. Nothing.
Why can’t I get Lila out of my head? What is it about her?
Lila walks right up and gives me a hug. I try not to look as surprised as I feel and wrap my free arm around her with an awkward pat to her shoulder.
She pulls back, crossing her arms and smirking. “What do you have there?”
I glance down where she’s looking and remember the vase I made her during my second pottery class. It’s lumpy, has a hole in the side so it can’t actually hold water, and the sage green I painted it dried in a puke-like color.
“Remember I said I took a pottery class in Seattle? Well, I made you a vase,” I say with a grimace, handing her the misshapen blob.
She grins as she takes it, holding it up proudly. “I love it.”
“Liar,” I tease as my eyes move to the canvas she was painting across the room. “Can I see what you were working on?”
She shrugs, a shy pink flush appearing on her high cheek bones. “I just started, so it’s not much yet.”
I follow her over to the canvas and note the glares I receive from the other artists.
Everyone seems to stop their work simply to stare and then narrow their eyes at me in disapproval.
I’m used to fielding disapproval—everywhere from playing away games in arenas full of hostile fans of opposing teams, to my own damn family every time they look at me—and usually, I try not to let it get to me.
But I find that I care more than I want to about what Lila’s friends think of me.
Lila’s hand slips into mine, distracting me from the questionable glances from her art collective. She squeezes my hand, a show of camaraderie. I look at her and the rest of the people in the building fade away. Lila smiles at me and drags me closer to her station.
When we step into her area, my gaze flies to the canvas I couldn’t see earlier.
My eyes drink in the bright colors she’s splashed across a rather large canvas.
It’s clear she’s just getting started, so I can’t tell anything about the style of her art.
The beginning of the painting already draws me in with the palette she’s using, though.
“What are you painting?”
She tilts her lips to the side as she thinks. “A local gallery requested I do a series for them. I thought I’d do a sequence of scenes around the city.”
I pump my eyebrows, impressed galleries are requesting art from her. That means there’s a demand for her work.
“That’s amazing,” I say, making her blush again.
She rolls her lips together. “Thanks.”
I’m working up the courage to ask if I can see more of her work when a throat clears, drawing me out of my Lila bubble—which is unfortunate because the Lila bubble might be my favorite place right now.
“Um, what’s that you’re holding, Li?” A deep voice asks.
We both turn and look to our left where the voice is coming from. A young man with dark hair stands in the booth beside Lila’s, and I instantly recognize him as the twerp I got locked in a standoff with a couple weeks back outside the gala at the Ritz.
Seeing him again irritates me instantly.
For one, I know he’s interested in her. It’s clear in his cocky smirk, his protective gaze, his elbow leaning against the table between them like he’s trying a little too hard to act casual.
He’s not a bad looking guy, if you’re into the lanky artist vibe.
I could kick his ass in about .002 seconds.
But perhaps this man is Lila’s type? They clearly work closely together each day, and he even has a nickname for her—Li.
A hint of insecurity sneaks its way inside my head. I hate it and immediately block it out.
Fishers are supposed to be impervious to insecurity. I mean, look at me! I’m handsome, athletic, rich, and I have the shoulders and ass of a model.
I slap some swagger into my expression and stand a little straighter—instantly hating myself for being a douchebag.
“Oh, that’s just a little something I made for Lila.” I chuckle. “Obviously I’m nowhere near your level of expertise with a potter's wheel.” I flit my eyes toward beautiful, expertly made pottery lining his shelves. “But I’m trying to learn a new skill…in between NHL hockey games.”
The man’s eyes narrow so slightly, I almost don’t notice it.
Lila laughs, but it sounds forced. “Well, I like it. It has…character.” She places the lump of hard clay I created near her easel then loads it up with paint brushes. “There, a brush holder! Perfect.”
The man’s tongue glides across his front teeth, he sloughs off of the table and stands, crossing his arms in an effort to make them look bigger and more intimidating. It doesn’t work.
“You mean, kind of like the brush holder I already made you?” He asks Lila.
I follow his gaze to a gorgeous piece of pottery that’s a perfect cylinder with tiny holes for paintbrushes along the outer edge, and a place to hold water for rinsing the brushes in the center.
“Yours is great, too, Zane,” Lila says to the man—Zane, apparently—with an affectionate smile.
I lean my hip against the wooden table that separates their spaces. “So, Zane,” I say in my deepest voice. “How’d you get into pottery?”
One of Zane’s eyebrows arches in challenge. “My mother taught me.” He sends Lila a soft smile. “It’s something we enjoyed together before she passed. Something Li and I have in common, continuing our mothers’ legacies through our art.”
Lila looks at him with the softest, sweetest look on her face.
I don’t like it.
That unfamiliar prickle of jealous insecurity reaches into my brain once more, and words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. “Well, my wife and I should probably head to dinner soon.”
Lila turns toward me with a look in her eyes I can’t quite read. Annoyance? Surprise? Wondering where my audacity came from?