Falling For You (Sapphire Bay Book 1)

by Leeanna Morgan

  A flash of headlights lit the living room. Natalie was home.

  He had a choice to make. He could stay on his side of the cottage, pounding words into his laptop or he could ask her if everything was okay.

  After deleting and rewriting the same paragraph three times, he made his decision. He’d talk to Natalie.

  He opened his front door and frowned. Natalie was trying to take a long package out of the bed of her truck. He jogged toward her. “It looks like you could do with a hand.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “I should be okay.” Wiggling the large, bulky package sideways didn’t make it move. She opened the tailgate and peered under the topper.

  Gabe shone his cell phone’s flashlight into the cargo area. “This might help.”

  Natalie leaned forward and sighed. “The edge of the packaging is caught on a screw. I hope it hasn’t damaged the canvases.”

  He glanced at the size of the parcel. It was huge—at least five feet long and four feet wide. “They’re going to be impressive paintings.”

  “They will be if I can get the canvases inside. I’ll have to remove the topper.”

  Gabe slid his phone into his pocket and flicked open the catches on his side of the truck. It was just as well Natalie had parked close to the back door. Without the security lights, they wouldn’t be able to see what they were doing.

  “Where did you find them?”

  “I always buy my canvases from a store in Chicago. They stretch each piece of canvas onto a frame and prime the surface for me. Mabel called this afternoon to tell me they’d arrived.”

  By the time Gabe finished lifting the catches, Natalie was ready to lift the cover off the truck.

  “Where do you want the topper?” he asked.

  Natalie looked behind her. “Over there will be okay.”

  They each took a side, carefully maneuvering it onto the ground.

  Natalie walked back to the truck and unhooked the packaging from the screw.

  He waited by the tailgate. “I’ll help you take them inside.”

  “I’ll be all right. The canvases aren’t heavy.”

  The package was larger than Natalie. There was no way she’d be able to lift it into the cottage on her own. “It’s an awkward size. Where are your house keys?”

  She reached into her pocket and held up a key ring. “Here.”

  “If you open your back door, I’ll carry it inside. Tell me if I’m going to hit anything.” Gabe lifted one side of the wrapped canvas and balanced it on the bed of the truck.

  Instead of unlocking the back door, Natalie didn’t move. “You don’t need to help me. I’m perfectly capable of moving it inside.”

  “Maybe I want to help.”

  “Why?”

  He took a deep breath. Telling the truth had never been so hard. “Because I’m feeling guilty. I know who you are and what happened in Italy.”

  Natalie’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

  “Two of your paintings were stolen from your apartment in Venice. A third painting had already been sent to Bozeman for an exhibition.”

  “How do you know what happened?”

  “Caleb read about the burglaries on the Internet. Did you know the police think the mafia are involved?”

  Natalie nodded. “They said something about that.”

  “Were they involved?”

  “I don’t know and I probably never will. Why were you looking for information about me?”

  Gabe relaxed his hands. Poking holes in the packaging wouldn’t help anyone. “I wanted to make sure you were here for the reasons you said you were.”

  “Why?”

  He looked at the canvases. He couldn’t tell her the whole truth. Not yet. “I had a bad experience with the media. When my second book was published, everyone wanted to know who I was. Some people who I thought were my friends spoke to a reporter. Before I knew it, stories about me started appearing in magazines and newspapers. What the reporter didn’t know, they made up. I came here to get away from all of that.”

  “I don’t blame you. It’s hard making new friends when you don’t know who you can trust.”

  Gabe studied Natalie’s face. “You have the same problem?”

  She nodded. “When I first lived in Europe I didn’t know anyone. After my third or fourth exhibition, I met a couple of people who seemed really nice. Six months later, one of those people sold a story about me to a magazine. I try not to let that experience change how I interact with people, but it’s hard.”

  “How do you keep your personal life and public profile separate?”

  Natalie shrugged. “I don’t let myself get close to people, but that creates other problems.”

  Gabe didn’t say anything. He’d done the same thing and it wasn’t easy. Loneliness snuck up on you so slowly that by the time you were there, it was too late to do anything about it.

  “But we’re not here to discuss my depressing personal life,” Natalie said. “Just promise me one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you want to know anything about me, just ask. But be warned. If I end up in one of your books, I’ll sue the pants off you.”

  Gabe lifted the canvases off the truck. “You won’t end up in one of my books. Where would you like this?”

  Natalie opened the back door. “In my studio. It’s the first door on your left.” She raced across to Gabe and grabbed the front of the parcel. “If we carry it together, I won’t feel so bad about keeping you awake.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I couldn’t sleep, anyway.” And that, Gabe knew, wouldn’t be changing anytime soon.

  Natalie threw back her blankets and jumped out of bed. Today she was starting her next two paintings. After a quick walk and an even quicker breakfast, she’d take the ideas she’d sketched onto paper and transfer them onto the canvases in her studio.

  She was excited to be working on two new projects. But with that excitement came a good dose of fear. Would the paintings live up to her expectations? Would Lorenzo like them enough to add them to her exhibition? And most importantly, would anyone buy them?

  She took a deep breath and tried not to think about the things that could go wrong. Her mom called it opening night nerves. Natalie called it her worst nightmare.

  After brushing her teeth, she headed outside. It was another glorious summer’s morning. There wasn’t a wisp of wind anywhere. The sky was so blue it hurt her eyes and the sun was already warming her skin.

  She took her cell phone out of her pocket and took a photo of the trees. Part of her success as a painter was being able to recreate the texture and feel of the landscapes she painted. As well as sketching lots of different scenes before she started on a canvas, she took hundreds of photos.

  The best images made it onto a board in her studio. The others were saved on her computer.

  A hawk squawked. She looked across the lake and snapped a series of photos as it circled the water.

  “We’ll have to stop meeting like this.”

  Natalie held her hand over her heart. “I wish you’d make more noise when you walk toward me.”

  “I thought I did, but you were miles away.” Gabe’s smile didn’t stop her from noticing the black circles under his eyes.

  “Were you writing all night?”

  “No. I couldn’t sleep so I read someone else’s book.”

  “You look tired.”

  Gabe rubbed his hand along the stubble on his jaw. “I’ll survive. I thought you’d be painting by now.”

  “I wanted to get some fresh air before I bury myself in my studio.” Natalie searched the stony shore of the lake. “Where’s Sherlock?”

  “He’ll be here soon. He never goes far.”

  “How did he end up living with you?”

  Gabe stuck his hands in his pockets. “He belonged to a friend in the NYPD K-9 unit. When Michelle died, Sherlock came to live with me.”

  A deep sadness clouded Gabe’s face. Nata
lie knew how devastating it was to lose someone you loved. “I’m sorry about your friend,” she said softly.

  “She was a great person.”

  Natalie wanted to reach out, touch his arm and let him know she understood. But that would cross a line she needed to stay away from. “There’s a deep bond between you and Sherlock. I thought you must have raised him from when he was a pup.”

  Gabe shook his head. “I spent lots of time with Michelle, but Sherlock was definitely her dog. They did everything together. When she died four years ago, Sherlock came to stay with me. It helped both of us.”

  From between two trees, the big German Shepherd bounded toward them.

  Natalie smiled. “He looks as though he enjoys living in Sapphire Bay.”

  “He’s never had so much freedom. When he was on patrol his days were spent in Grand Central Station, the subway, or on the streets of New York City. Central Park was the closest we found to what you have here.”

  Sherlock woofed, then sat quietly at Gabe’s side.

  Natalie used her cell phone to take some pictures of him.

  He lifted his head and looked straight at the camera.

  “He’s a supermodel.” Natalie laughed at the comical expression on Sherlock’s face. “Why did your friend name him Sherlock?”

  “Michelle read my first novel four years before it was published. My main character’s dog is called Sherlock. It stuck to this little guy when he arrived.”

  Natalie knelt on the ground and rubbed Sherlock’s thick coat. “Your name suits you.”

  Sherlock’s pink tongue licked the side of her face.

  She laughed and moved out of his way. “As cute as you are, I don’t want your tongue anywhere near me. You can save your slobbery kisses for Gabe.”

  She slipped her phone into her pocket and looked at her neighbor. For some reason, he seemed surprised. “I have to get back to the cottage. If you don’t see me for a few days, don’t worry. I’ll come up for air eventually.”

  “You know where I am if you need me.”

  Natalie smiled. “I do.” She gave Sherlock another pat before heading home.

  She imagined the blank canvas sitting on her easel, waiting for the first brushstroke to bring it to life. Her mind was already racing over different possibilities, the twists and turns that would make the painting special.

  By the end of the day, the image would be fully sketched and ready for the first layer of paint. From there, it was a matter of letting the painting tell its own story. A story that would be as unique as the man who was living next door to her.

  Chapter 4

  Gabe turned on his microwave and reheated the leftovers from last night’s dinner. He’d already taken Sherlock for a walk, thrown out the trash, and brought his washing inside.

  He’d also finished chapter six of his book, discovered an interesting person in his hero’s past, and given the medical examiner a flimsy alibi on the day the dead body went missing from the morgue. Not bad for a day that had started with a bang. Literally.

  At precisely five thirty-six, a pale blue Ford Fiesta had collided with an oak tree at the end of the street. The tree survived. The car didn’t.

  Gabe had thrown on his tracksuit and rushed outside. Natalie wasn’t far behind him. While he helped the driver, she’d called 9-1-1 and found a first aid kit in the trunk. The car was a rental, the driver, a tourist. After a long flight and an even longer drive, the man from Sydney, Australia, was about to discover the joys of paperwork. Falling asleep behind the wheel of a car wasn’t something he’d be doing again in a hurry.

  It wasn’t until the man was being driven away in the ambulance that Gabe noticed what Natalie was wearing.

  She blushed beet red when she caught him staring at her legs. Long legs covered in the tiniest pair of shorts he’d ever seen.

  As she’d yanked her sweatshirt lower, she’d glared at him. Only it wasn’t a mean-ass glare that told him to back off. It was the type of glare that dared him to say something.

  Which would have been fine and dandy if he could have thought of something to say. But by some miracle of human biology, his brain had short-circuited and left him bug-eyed and tongue-tied.

  He really needed to get a life. Thirty-nine-year-old men did not go gaga over a pair of woman’s legs. Except he had and he wasn’t sure it would lead to a productive day in his office.

  So, after Natalie made a hasty escape, he’d gone for a swim in the lake. A cold swim that did nothing to erase the image of her legs from his brain. It wasn’t until Sherlock jumped on his back and nearly drowned both of them that he started thinking logically.

  Long legs or not, Gabe was on a mission and chapter six would wait for no one.

  The microwave beeped and he took out his mac and cheese. The congealed mess did nothing for his appetite, but food was food. When he was on a roll, the only thing he needed was fuel. Whether it looked okay wasn’t important.

  Sherlock followed him onto the veranda, not even bothering to poke his nose into Gabe’s plate.

  Looking at the gooey pasta, Gabe didn’t blame him.

  Sherlock’s nose twitched at about the same time Gabe’s did.

  Roast chicken.

  He sniffed again. Onions, celery, and if he wasn’t mistaken, a good dose of mixed herbs.

  His stomach rumbled.

  Sherlock looked pleadingly up at him.

  “No. Definitely not,” he whispered. “That’s Natalie’s dinner. You’ve had your dog roll and I’ve got my…” he looked down at his mac and cheese, “…dinner. Yum.”

  Sherlock wasn’t buying his fake enthusiasm. He woofed, sending a flock of swallows high into the air.

  The K-9 super dog who’d found more criminals and drugs than any other dog in New York City, took off across the yard, barking like an out-of-control freight train.

  Natalie walked around the side of the cottage. “Is everything all right?”

  Apart from this morning’s unexpected meeting, he hadn’t seen her for three days.

  “We’re fine. Sherlock’s blowing off some steam.”

  Natalie’s eyes widened when she saw his dinner. “That looks…interesting.”

  “Last night’s leftovers. I’ve been writing all day. How’s the painting?”

  A smile lit Natalie’s face. “It’s great. I don’t know whether it’s because I’m in Sapphire Bay or because I’m trying something new, but it’s coming together really well. How’s the book?”

  “I’m up to chapter seven.”

  “Does your hero know who the body belongs to?”

  “He thinks he does, but he’s about to be proven wrong.”

  Natalie leaned against the rail. “How do you know what’s going to happen?”

  “I have a broad outline of the plot on my computer. After every third chapter I look at what’s coming up and decide if I need to make any changes.”

  “Have any of your stories done a complete U-turn and left you wondering what will happen next?”

  “My last book was like that.” Gabe thought about Taken, the first book in the eight-part series he was writing. “Sometimes a character does something so unexpected that it surprises me. When that happens, you need to decide whether their actions make the story stronger or if it will take you down a dead end.”

  Natalie smiled. “And if it takes you down a dead end, you need a dead body, too.”

  “Exactly.”

  Sherlock ran toward the cottage.

  “I’m sorry about this morning,” Gabe muttered. “I didn’t mean to stare at your legs.”

  Natalie shrugged as if it didn’t matter, but the blush on her face told him it did. “It’s okay. I don’t normally wear my pajamas outside.”

  Gabe’s imagination worked overtime. If they were her pajama bottoms, he wondered what the top looked like.

  He cleared his throat, hoping Natalie didn’t realize what he was thinking. “I’m glad you were there to help.”

  “I didn’t do much.
I’m just happy the man wasn’t badly hurt.” Natalie moved away from the rail. “I hope you don’t think I’m rude or anything, but you’re welcome to share my dinner. I baked roast chicken and vegetables.”

  He didn’t have to think twice about her offer. “I’ll bring dessert.”

  Natalie’s smile made his breath catch. “I’ll see you soon. Don’t forget Sherlock.”

  While the big German Shepherd ambled toward the cottage, Gabe took a carton of ice cream out of the freezer. Between Natalie’s chicken and his dessert, they had a meal fit for royalty. Or a man and a dog who were desperate for a home-cooked dinner.

  After dinner, Natalie rinsed the soapsuds off a plate and handed it to Gabe. “Was that better than your mac and cheese?”

  “A lot better. I should have cooked something, but time has a habit of slipping away when I’m writing.”

  “It’s the same with painting.”

  “I saw some of your landscapes on the Internet. They’re incredible.”

  She smiled at his softly spoken compliment. “Thanks. I always try and do something a little different with each canvas.”

  Gabe stacked the plate on top of the ones he’d dried. “How long does it usually take to finish a painting?”

  “It depends on the size of the canvas and what I’m trying to achieve. If the painting has a lot of layers, it can take five or six months. Each layer needs to dry before the next one can be added. That’s why I work on multiple canvases at the same time. I once had five paintings all in various stages of work. That was a little crazy.”

  “Some authors are the same. They’ll write one novel in the morning and another in the afternoon. I guess we all have to find a process that works for us.”

  “My process wasn’t great. I used to think that shutting myself off from the world was the only way I could create my paintings. But I’ve turned over a new leaf and I’m trying something different.”

  “How different?”

  Natalie grinned. “Life-changing different. I’ve given myself three days to lay the foundations for my paintings. From now on, I paint from seven in the morning until four in the afternoon. Unless I’m on a roll and then I’ll take extra time off the next day.”