12. June
JUNE
For the first time in a very long time, I find myself sitting in front of a blank canvas.
The sun is still rising in the sky through the studio window—a small room in the back of the gallery that I’ve used for storage until very recently. So recently, in fact, I wasn’t even sure I had any spare canvases until I found one buried behind the back of the shelves.
The lighting isn’t perfect, not like it would be if I were painting on top of, say, a refurbished lighthouse with three-hundred-sixty-degree views.
But it’s bright enough and warm enough, and the paintbrush in my hand doesn’t feel like it’s going to burn up from the sheer significance of the occasion.
I tell myself it’s not a big deal. That it’s just like riding a bike. That no one needs to see this. If it’s bad, it’s bad, and it doesn’t matter. I can just paint whatever I like.
So, with a tense jaw—but a surprisingly loose wrist—I do.
It’s freeing to paint without the pressure of college or my mentors watching over me.
Yet I still catch myself slipping into old habits.
I realize, surprisingly late, that I’m creating a pastiche of my favorite Edgar Degas landscape.
The strokes feel comfortingly familiar; I must have painted this dozens of times during my explorations of muted palettes.
I often choose an element of the sky or the grasses to experiment on—much to my Fine Art professor’s despair, who nearly failed me once for blending hot pink into the olive tree leaves.
I lose myself in the memory of his eye rolls and passionate pleas as I paint on autopilot.
Classic eighties hits play softly in the corner of the room from the speaker I dragged in from the gallery floor—I blame Birdie’s for that particular earworm.
It’s a quiet afternoon, and the door is propped open in case anyone comes in, although I suppose it’s optimistic of me to think I’d hear the door from back here.
Hours or minutes might pass before I realize someone’s watching me.
“I thought you said you didn’t paint anymore?”
My brush freezes over the canvas for a moment before I continue. “Not everything I say and do is black and white.”
There’s an indignant snort. “I didn’t realize June Holloway was capable of half-measures.”
“It shouldn’t surprise you to learn that you don’t actually know me.”
“Sure, I do.” Ashton walks in, entirely uninvited. “You’re the kind of person who’s willing to dumpster dive for paintings if an artist isn’t satisfied with them. Tell me, would Pearson-Lord say you’re a particularly gray person?”
I don’t answer that, resolutely continuing on with my painting. It’s been silent for so long, I halfway hope that Ashton might have left.
“It’s a Degas, isn’t it?”
I let out a long-suffering sigh and sit back in defeat, cracking my neck as an excuse to examine the canvas. “It’s barely more than a base layer; you can’t know that.”
“The palette gives it away.” His voice is closer now, and a hand reaches over my shoulder to gesture to the areas he’s talking about. “You’ve focused on building up the yellows all over here.”
“Could be a van Gogh,” I point out petulantly, unwilling to let him win.
Suddenly, there’s a warm pressure on the back of my neck and a protest on the tip of my tongue. But then Ashton’s fingers casually work on the knots that have accumulated from the painting session. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly my protests turn into suppressed groans.
“Van Gogh’s beaches could never be mistaken for New England.” Ashton keeps gesturing absently. “But squint at a Degas and you can practically smell the lobster rolls.”
I concentrate on his words and the sounds he’s making.
I am. Sentences are coming from his mouth, and I can clearly understand what they are and what they mean.
There’s no white noise vibrating through my skull as he continues his ministrations to my neck.
The world around me doesn’t dissolve into a single focus on the brush of his thumb.
The rush of pure relief doesn’t rise to my cheeks.
“Which I suspect it is. I’d bet a significant amount that a home bird like you would flock to the familiar. Hence the deduction.”
Dang it.
What is he talking about?
I force myself to pull away from him so I can gather my remaining brain cells. “It’s just a painting.”
He hums in a way that sounds a little too triumphant. It’s enough to make me discard my attempts to continue and turn to face him.
It’s a little unfair how nice he looks. The lighting isn’t perfect.
Not the way it would be if he were standing at the top of, say, a refurbished lighthouse with three-hundred-sixty-degree views.
But it’s bright enough and warm enough for me to draw mental comparisons to art, however unwelcome, however mortifying.
The problem with Ashton Parker is that I’m the one who put him in a box—a box labeled “self-entitled tourist who will break your heart” with an even bigger label across it that says DO NOT OPEN.
Still, Ashton has been doing all he can to get out of it, challenging my expectations with his persistence and honesty.
And it’s not like my initial perception of him is entirely wrong.
It’s just that I’m struggling to find reasons to care anymore, which is a familiar, well-worn path for me.
That hope, that maybe this time it could work.
This time he might not break my heart—and yep, I’m twenty all over again, just imagining the light leaving Meredith’s eyes as I try to convince her this time it’s true.
Knowing she’s already planning ways to trick Mom into making an extra cranberry pie.
It’s mortifying how my heart quickens at the sight of him, all strong lines and a knowing, half-arrogant smile.
Broad shoulders wrapped in a half-zip pullover make him seem like he’s lived here his whole life.
Even his hair, usually so polished, appears to have caught the salty wind, tousled in a way that would earn a sneer or two at the country club.
I’ve always known him to be handsome, but this is truly unfair.
“So, what was it that made you paint again?”
I realize that I’ve been silent for a little too long as I clear my throat. “I felt like it?”
“Try again.” His hands bury themselves in his pockets as he steps forward into my space.
His audacity is enough to turn the haze of his charm back into annoyance. I can almost feel my body settle into the familiar rhythm of our conversations. “You don’t know me.”
“You don’t want me to know you, but it’s a little too late for that,” he fires back easily and remains unfazed when I don’t bother replying. “I’ve not seen you since the barbecue. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I don’t need you to check up on me.”
He lowers his chin and raises his brows. “Marlene Abrams said you fell off the pier.”
Dang it, Marlene!
I shrug and glance at my feet. “That was my sister.”
“The one you don’t like or the one you do?”
“Ashton!” I cry out, his persistence finally wearing through whatever patience I’d cultivated through painting.
“What?” He searches my eyes for something I’m too scared for him to find. “What is it? Because I’m driving myself crazy trying to figure it out.”
And suddenly, he’s not talking about the barbecue or my sisters anymore.
Suddenly, we’re right back on the beach, having the same conversation I was hoping to avoid.
Ashton might think he knows me, but I know myself better, and the only way I’ll come out of this unscathed is if I avoid it altogether.
“What would it take, June? Because if it’s not the opportunity of a lifetime for your clients or a way to handle whatever chaos is happening with your family or anything else, what is it that a bored billionaire could offer you to buy your affections? Tell me because I don’t know what to do.”
I can’t meet his eyes or let my heart rise into my throat.
I stubbornly swallow it down. “I can’t do this right now.
This was supposed to be a good day. I was finally painting again, and you’ve just walked in here and ruined it with your posturing and assertiveness because you think you’re owed something from me.
I never asked for any of that; that was all you. ”
“Then tell me to leave.”
Suddenly, my throat closes.
He steps closer. So close that his proximity forces me to stare down at his shoes. “Tell me to leave and I won’t come back. I’ll stop. I’ll leave you alone.”
“I…”
“You know what I think?” There’s a hand on my chin now, gently coaxing it up. “I think you’re too stubborn for your own good.”
Light gray eyes meet mine, and there’s no point trying to swallow anymore.
“Pot meet kettle.” My voice sounds feeble, even to my own ears.
“And wouldn’t that just be fantastic?”
He leans down to press his forehead against mine, his hand now gently cupping my jaw with a tenderness I don’t know I deserve. Still, a brave part of me tries to protect itself by raging from behind my rib cage. But with each second, it feels more like a heartbeat.
I roll my eyes, needing to look anywhere but at him. “We’d argue all the time.”
“Like that wouldn’t be my favorite part.”
“You’d hate me,” I whisper, feeling myself give in more each second.
“I could love you more.”
Something strangled finally escapes my throat. “You can’t just say that. You don’t know. How could you possibly?—”
“If I had you, June…” His words are like breaths across my lips. “I’d be far too stubborn to let you go. It would be inevitable.”
“And if I said it was casual? That I’m only doing this because I’m bored, that it will all be over the second Charlie Anderson calls me up?”
His eyes flash dangerously. “Then I’d call you a liar.”
I shake my head defiantly. “I’m not leaving Nantucket. Not for anyone.”
“I know,” he says with a growing smile.
“So you know that there’s no way?—”
“I know.”
I hold out my hands, as if warding him off. The truth is, I just need a moment. And maybe a little breathing room. “Ashton…please.”
“Are you done with your warnings?” He straightens his posture.
“They aren’t warnings. I’m trying to?—”
“Because I’m going to kiss you.”
He gives me a moment to tell him no. But I don’t. I can’t.
Then, he cups my face in his hands and lowers his head to mine. I’m helpless to stop him as I try to regulate my breathing so I don’t blow him away with my frantic panting. Or faint. Really, at this point, it could go either way.
Before I know it, his lips press into mine with all the hunger of a man who’s only recently learned the meaning of starvation.
And I lose myself with one final, silent prayer. This time. Please.
It’s not the first time I’ve woken up on a yacht, but it’s definitely the nicest morning I’ve ever spent on one. Mostly because every attempt I made to sneak off before sunrise was met with a pair of strong arms and an even stronger argument for staying put.
He warned me yesterday that this would happen.
After we finally caught our breath at the gallery, he insisted I close early so he could take me to lunch, which turned into dinner, then drinks, and, naturally, it ended here—on his boat.
Sure, it’s one thing for someone to say they want to “do this properly,” but actually following through? That’s something else.
Now I’m stretched across a lounger, basking in the kind of golden morning light that feels almost suspiciously curated. Ashton hands me a BLT he just grilled on the yacht’s actual barbecue, and the smell alone starts melting away whatever anxiety I’d managed to hang on to.
“You could paint for me, you know,” he says, dropping beside me into the seat. His arm settles over my shoulders like it belongs there. It feels almost embarrassingly natural.
“I don’t want handouts just because I agreed to date you,” I say around a bite of sandwich.
He presses a smile to my temple. “I’m just saying, I’ve got a client who’s always looking for pastiches. I could make the intro.”
“Let’s go at least a week before you offer to buy my affections, okay?”
The corners of his eyes crinkle. “I thought I already had them?”
He’s got that smug little smile again, and the only reasonable thing to do is kiss it away. “You know what I meant.”
“Is there really nothing you want?”
I’m about to roll my eyes and deny it when something flickers.
Because actually, yeah. There is. For the past twenty-four hours, I’ve been living on a different planet, one where the last few weeks don’t exist. But they’re still waiting for me—the mess Dad left behind, the Shack in ruins, and the fact that we’re broke. Or close enough.
The moment the thought crosses my mind, I flinch internally.
There’s no way I could ask Ashton for money right now.
Not when this—whatever this is—is still so new.
It doesn’t matter how casual he is with his credit card.
And even if he offered, I’d never live it down.
My reputation has only just stopped being a punchline, and people like Charlie Anderson still find reasons to call.
If word got out that I slept my way to financial security?
No. Not happening. I’ll finish the investment pack I started last week. There are other ways.
“What is it?” Ashton asks.
Of course, he’s watching me. Probably saw the entire mental spiral reflected in his Burberry sunglasses. Oh, for goodness’ sake.
“I guess you’ll have to find out next week,” I say with a tight smile.
He hums, amused, then leans in to steal a bite of my sandwich. I swipe at him without much commitment.
“I’m going to take that as a good sign. Means you’re planning to keep me around at least a week.”
I hide a smile behind my next bite. “You’re an optimist, huh?”
“To date you?” He leans back and pulls me with him, my head resting against his chest. “I’d have to be.”