5. June
JUNE
I always conveniently forget that Charlie Anderson snores until the morning after.
He’s not an early riser, but I am. His kisses sometimes taste like cigar ash, and I’ve never smoked a day in my life. He’s a stoic, simple kind of guy who vacations in Nantucket every summer, and I am none of those things.
There’s really nothing compatible about us, yet here I am again.
“June?” Charlie murmurs, half-asleep, as I get out of bed.
I shush him quietly. “Go back to sleep.”
He grunts into his pillow. “I’ll call you.”
I bite back a “don’t bother,” instead offering, “Sure.” Because summer has barely started, and I’m already reverting to bad habits just to distract myself from the carnage that has become my life.
I pull my clothes back on and don’t think about the Shack.
I search for my jacket, and I don’t think about Richard.
I tie the laces of my sneakers, not thinking about Meredith.
I step out of the Anderson summer house—more like a mansion—and I absolutely refuse to let my mind linger on Aiden Holloway.
My Land Cruiser roars to life, and I can’t bring myself to care if Charlie hears it.
We’ve been playing this game for years now; it’s not like he doesn’t know what he signed up for when I called him at ten o’clock last night.
It’s easy to ignore the I thought you weren’t doing this anymores and the you said you wouldn’t come crawling backs when my brain is a livewire of emotion.
But in the relatively warm light of day, that familiar ache of shame washes over me in waves. It makes me nauseous all the way to the gallery, and I have a headache brewing that can only be cured by caffeine and a shower.
All things considered, it’s a very, very terrible morning.
Someone is waiting at the entrance to the gallery. And I curse under my breath.
“Good morning.” Ashton, the probable billionaire in Burberry, leans against the gallery wall, all neat, slick lines and perfect hair. Holding two cups of takeaway coffee from Linda’s place down the road.
“Right,” I reply, uselessly.
The Pearson-Lords. He actually came back for them. Our last interaction feels like a lifetime ago.
He raises a perfect brow at me. “You wanna talk about it?”
I don’t think about how I look as I reach for the coffee in his outstretched hand. “Not unless you’re actually going to buy these paintings,” I take a sip and immediately frown. “Is there syrup in this?”
“I got chatting to the barista, she said you’ve single-handedly kept her in business these last few years.” Ashton smiles. “Do you know everyone in town?”
“It’s a small island.” I turn away to work my key into the door. “Why, have you been asking around about me?”
“Would your attitude get any worse if I said yes?”
I push the door open with a scowl. “Just get in.”
Ashton smirks to himself as he steps around me into the empty showroom.
A few seconds later, I turn on the lights and see an empty coffee cup in the trash can. Thankfully, if Ashton has any thoughts about how quickly I consume caffeine, he keeps them to himself as I try to guide him back to the paintings.
Only, he stops me at the counter. “I have a confession.”
The headache is already returning. Linda should have given him two coffees. “You’re not here for the paintings.”
“Oh, I am. You can take my card now if you want,” he says, tossing something a little too plastic and too black to be handled so casually onto the counter. “But I do have an ulterior motive.”
It’s with no small amount of hesitation that I approach the register to examine his offering.
And there, beneath the centurion, are the embossed letters, A F Parker.
The name barely has time to register before another card is pushed over to me.
This one is decisively less plastic and very much a proposition.
Ashton Franklin Parker.
The Parker Gallery, New York City.
Not printed but obvious: Art dealer. Billionaire art dealer.
“Of course,” I breathe. Then again, in and out. My hazy memory of semesters in New York, staring into gallery windows and imagining what it would be like to have my art up on those walls someday, floods to the forefront of my mind. It’s a bitter kind of nostalgia.
“I’d love to have a discussion about collaborating.” He taps the Amex as if to remind me it’s there. “I’ve got several big names that want to showcase to the Nantucket summer crowds, and your gallery’s reputation is ideal, to say the least.”
“So you have been asking around about me.” I avoid looking at him as I ring him up. I try to keep my fingers steady while I punch in six intimidating digits and hand the card back to him so I can print the paperwork.
“I prefer the term field research. The fine art down the block has the history, but Aiden June’s has the best word of mouth. Half the returning vacationers on the ferry over said they’d purchased something here in the last five years.”
I stand back up from the printer, suddenly emboldened by my annoyance at his presumptuous tone. “You wanna know why?”
“Enlighten me.”
“Because I don’t showcase big names from New York.”
Ashton smiles, gray eyes twinkling in amusement like my refusal was expected, like he wanted the challenge of it. “Allow me a dinner to change your mind.”
I try again. “I support local artists.”
“And you could support them by getting their work into my galleries. Call it an exchange program.”
I laugh inwardly because, well, that’s a ridiculous thing to offer, especially when I know the kind of foot traffic the Parker Gallery attracts.
The kind that comes with a waiting list and a glass of champagne at the door.
And it’s not like he’s wrong to say Aiden June is popular, but New York is an entirely different ballpark.
I wave him off with an eye roll. “And get cut off at the knees on commission? I’ll pass.”
“I won’t take a commission.” It seems he also doesn’t take a hint.
I stare at him. Either he’s actually insane or…well, the theories start to run rampant. “Do you ever stop?”
“No.” Ashton smiles. “Dinner, with me. Tonight. I have a yacht in the harbor.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I thought you said you took the ferry over?”
“I did, the yacht is new.”
“Of course it is,” I mutter as I run my hands through the mess that is my hair.
There’s absolutely nothing this man could say or offer me to make me change my mind, but I’d be lying if I said the offer of being professionally courted all night by someone who clearly has the money to burn isn’t appealing, especially when I don’t want to call Charlie again at ten o’clock when the chaos catches up to me. “Okay, fine.”
Ashton’s smile grows even wider—and more annoying. “Excellent. Oh, and bring the Pearson-Lords? They won’t fit in my MINI.”
“So, who do you owe money to?” I say as I settle into the sunken booth on the deck of The Spectre.
The yacht is surprisingly neither flashy nor modest. It sits in that careful middle ground, where wealth isn’t loud but expressed in subtle, intentional details.
The polished teak deck, the sleek navy hull, and the understated yet clearly expensive glassware set neatly on the dining table between us.
Well, as much as a yacht can be quiet and understated.
But the thing about living in Nantucket so long is that my wide-eyed disbelief at random displays of wealth has become noticeably more jaded.
The Spectre isn’t even the biggest yacht I’ve been invited to this year.
Ashton has selected the perfect vantage point—close enough to feel tethered to the shore, yet far enough that the rest of Nantucket seems almost invisible.
The lantern light from the dock glints off the calm water, casting gold flickers onto the white leather seats.
Below deck, a speaker hums out smooth jazz, perfectly matching his curated aesthetic.
He pours the wine with a practiced hand, watching me as if assessing a piece at auction. “Why do I owe anyone any money?”
I shrug nonchalantly. “Why else would you be here?”
“Well, I recall being promised a story if I bought a couple of very expensive expressions of light.” He places the bottle down and throws me a look that says, your move.
Every interaction with this man has felt like I’m in a sparring pit, and the exhaustion suddenly seeps into my bones. Because this isn’t what I came here for. This was supposed to be a distraction.
I shake my head. “There’s no story.”
Ashton’s eyes flicker over my face as he takes a sip of wine. “I’m guessing it wasn’t just a bad morning.”
“Perceptive,” I say with enough sarcasm to give Sarah a run for her money.
Ashton lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug. “We don’t have to talk about it. It’s just I’m a great listener and practically a stranger, and we have at least another bottle of wine to get through.”
“And you’re looking for an angle to get me to host your artists.”
His answering smile is all teeth. “That, too.”
His honesty shouldn’t work—the audacity to declare his intentions without dancing around the issue. But it’s so frustratingly refreshing.
And the thoughts I’ve been avoiding all day are already waiting for me. Flickering beneath the surface, shiny and tempting, even though I know they’ll drown me the moment I dip my head beneath the water.
But right now I’m safely floating on a yacht.
I sigh and say, “It’s a bit of a bummer.”
“The best stories always are,” Ashton comments mildly. “It makes the endings that much sweeter.”
“I don’t know about that.”
He doesn’t respond to that. Instead, he focuses on his meal, silently carving into the fish and giving me space to gather my thoughts—trying to decide how much I want to reveal and how much I can handle saying out loud.
“My dad died fifteen years ago.”
Ashton glances up at me, hand hovering above his plate with a forkful of bright white filet. For a moment, I think he will offer me his condolences, the same ones I’ve heard a thousand times over. But instead, he just slowly nods and gestures for me to continue.