by Linda Kage
I shook my head. “No one knows. He’s the city’s famous—or maybe I should say infamous—graffiti artist. He only works in black, white, and red spray paint, and all his masterpieces usually depict some kind of meaningful message. They’re signed B.C., which is how he became dubbed Black Crimson.”
Isobel wrinkled her nose. “I’m sure B and C are for the initials in his name, not for the colors in which he works.”
“Probably. But no one knows, so they just call him Black Crimson. Rolls off the tongue better than B.C., I guess.”
She turned to watch me seriously. “What do you think of them?”
“I like them,” I said honestly. “I hate how the city paints over them. They’re not evil and have actually seemed to lift the morale of the people, especially the ones who were so affected after the closing of the Pestle shoe factory. Plus, someday, I can picture a future archeologist uncovering them and trying to figure out the meaning and culture behind them.”
Isobel stared at me silently before nodding her head. “That’s a good answer. I think I like them too.”
I don’t know why her agreement pleased me. It wouldn’t have mattered if she’d liked them or not, but it just felt good to know we were of the same accord. It made me feel as if we understood each other better.
“Want me to take you past my favorite one? It’s not too far from where we’re going. We can swing by it on the way.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “I’d like that very much.”
Her answer was so formal, I burst out laughing before answering, “Indeed, my lady.”
She reached across the center console to nudge my arm and roll her eyes, all the while grinning over my tease. “Just drive.”
I did but still had to smirk as I went. Making a slight detour from our original destination, I turned down a side street until we passed the town’s historical museum. The outer wall facing the street held no windows, deeming it a perfect place for Black Crimson to strike. In this picture, he—or she—had painted a tower with some long flowing hair streaming out the balcony at the top. It flowed all the way to the ground. Some hapless guy had tried to climb the hair, but he must’ve lost his grip because he was flailing in midair, ready to drop to his doom.
The quote for this picture said:
Don’t take life too seriously. You’re not getting out of it alive.
From the passenger seat, Isobel burst out laughing. “Oh my God, that’s hilarious.” Holding her side, she rolled to face me. “Who is it a quote from?”
Her eyes glittered with joy and I had to admit, it felt nice, knowing she realized I’d made sure to find out the answer to that question already.
“Elbert Hubbard,” I said. “Or at least, it’s similar to one of his quotes.”
She nodded. “Does all of Black Crimson’s art illustrate some fairy tale or another?”
I sent her a curious glance.
Motioning behind her, she explained. “Well, that one was obviously Rapunzel. And the one before was the Big Bad Wolf, right?”
“Holy shit,” I cried, gaping at her before shaking my head and returning my attention to the road. “I think you’re right. I remember another one having some guy leaning over a sleeping woman and one had a mermaid on it, which must be—”
“The Little Mermaid,” she murmured for me.
I nodded before saying, “Huh. I wonder why I never caught on to that before.”
“Well, the pictures look pretty contemporary. No one is wearing chainmail and suits of armor or big, flaring dresses with tiaras, which usually clues a person in to a fairy tale.”
“True,” I allowed before winking over at her. “Or I just needed someone like you around to notice the obvious for me.”
My praise made her blush. I turned another corner at a light and halfway down the block, we came to the address she’d given me, but even before I pulled to the curb, my eyes flared with shock at the flower shop where I’d found her fake midnight supreme rose seeds.
“Hey,” I said, my surprise evident. “I’ve been here before. It’s where I bought the—”
“I know.” She grew serious as she gazed out the truck window at the building. “The name and address of the place was stamped on the back of the package of rose seeds you gave me.”
“Oh.” I frowned, only more confused. “So…why are we here then?” I would’ve thought she’d want nothing to do with a business that offered such a hustle.
“I was a bit upset at the woman who owned the place for scamming you the way she did,” Isobel explained with a shrug. “So I bought her out of business.”
I stared at her, blinking before I shook my head and laughed, unable to take her words literally. “You did what?”
She shrugged. “The woman didn’t deserve to own a flower shop if she treated her customers the way she treated you, so I bought her out. And now…” She tipped her head to the shop and met my gaze. “I own a flower shop.”
“I…” I laughed again, not sure what to think of this before bursting out, “Are you actually serious?”
“As a heart attack,” she said. “So…are you willing to help me with this project, or not?”
I shook my head, dazed. “Help you with what? Holy shit, I can’t believe you just up and bought a business out from under someone. Do you even know how to run your own shop?”
“No.” She started to grin. “Of course not. I’ve been a shut-in at my home since I was seventeen. But my dad and brother can give me pointers, plus…” I swear, her lashes fluttered as she looked entreatingly at me. “You helped your mom run her bakery, right?”
“Only for a few months,” I argued. “And it ended up going out of business. I don’t think that makes me such a good referral.”
“Nonsense,” she argued. “You’ll do fine. You can be the face of the company and deal with customers. I’ll work in the back, arranging flowers and…you know, do whatnot.”
Whatnot.
It was enough to make me laugh again. Not because it was funny. It was just…stunning, a scratch-my-head-in-wonder-and-laugh kind of shock.
“You’re really serious about this,” I repeated, not asking this time, but stating.
She nodded. “What? Don’t you think it’ll work?”
“I don’t…” Shrugging, I gave her my honest answer. “I actually have no idea. I mean, of course, I’d be willing to help you, no matter how risky it was. But what about your dad? I’m kind of indebted to him and signed a contract saying I’d work for him for the rest of my life.”
“But your agreement was for you to spend time with me, which you’d be doing.”
“I…” I wrinkled my brow before slowly saying, “Yeah. I suppose that would be one way to put it. But—”
“Then we’ll talk to Dad and see what he says.”
I laughed again. “What about you, though? You never leave the house, yet now, suddenly, you want to open a flower shop where you’ll be exposed to customers all day? Do you really think you could handle that?”
She lifted her chin primly. “I believe I already told you, dealing with the customers would be your job, not mine.”
“But you must know sometimes you wouldn’t be able to help it. If I got busy, or sick, or had a question only you could answer… There would be some exposure.”
She seemed to deliberate that before giving a slow nod. “I suppose I could handle some exposure. It’s time.”
“It’s a big step,” I told her. “Like jumping straight off into the deep end, instead of slowly wading in until you’re comfortable. Are you sure you’re up for it?”
She nodded. “I’m sure.” Then she blushed. “You make me feel ready for anything.”
I blew out a breath, honored by such a statement, but also intimidated. What if something went wrong? Would she then blame me? Besides…
“I’m still baffled here,” I admitted. “What even prompted you to do this?”
“I told you—”
“Yeah, yeah. You wanted to st
op that lady from deceiving anyone else, but that didn’t mean you had to keep the place once you bought it. You could spice it up, then turn around and sell it for a profit. Or put someone else in charge of running it, instead of making it some do-it-yourself project.”
She drew in a slow breath, before meeting my gaze and admitting, “You made me want more.”
“What?” I whispered.
“With the bookshelves,” she prompted, “and running every morning together, and just everything. I’ve felt more alive these past few weeks than I have in years, maybe in forever. And it’s made me feel cooped up in that big house. I suddenly felt this urge to get out and do something, to make a living, to just…live. I want to do this, Shaw, because…because I actually want to do something. Like you said once, I want to make a difference in the world and leave my mark. Even if it’s just to make people smile when they buy my flowers. That would be enough for me.”
My lips parted in awe. I wasn’t sure why, but in that moment, I couldn’t think of anyone else I admired more in the world. To watch her go from being the vulnerable, standoffish scarred woman in the rose garden only to bloom into the amazing creature before me was nothing short of a miracle.
I was mesmerized.
“Then I’ll help you,” I heard myself say. It didn’t matter what it took or how we’d convince her father to allow my assistance, I would help her. That I knew for sure.
She grinned as if I’d just pulled down the stars for her, then she threw her arms around my neck and opened her mouth to mine.
Our tongues met first, then our lips, our hands. But she was still too far away. I started to tug her over the cup holder and into my lap before a passing car honked. I had no idea if they were honking at us or something else, but it still cooled me off enough to let her go and pull away. Breathing hard, I wiped my mouth that still tasted of her.
“That’s probably as far as we should go in public,” I said, blushing, before I sent her a rueful glance of apology for nearly mauling her in front of anyone and everyone who bothered to look into the cab of my truck.
Isobel met my gaze, her blue eyes serious. “Then take me somewhere private.”
My stomach dipped with disappointment. “You want to go home?”
“No…” She shook her head and her kiss-stained lips curved into a smile. “Not yet.”
chapter
TWENTY-ONE
Oh, holy shit. Holy shit. Did that mean what I thought it meant?
I had no idea, but my libido certainly started assuming plenty. Instantly hard, I shifted in my seat to make more room in my pants before clearing my throat and tipping my head toward the flower shop. “Didn’t you want to go inside?”
Isobel glanced over her shoulder toward the store she’d purchased. Gaze disinterested, she turned back to me. “No.”
Air puffed from my lungs. “So, you…just…anywhere?” I asked.
When she nodded, I had to concentrate on exhaling again. “Okay,” I said. “Okay.”
I put the truck in drive and pulled back into traffic. We drove for about five more minutes as the day slid into dusk and my headlights came on. At first, it was aimless. I wasn’t sure where to take her that would be private. Mom was at my house, and well…that’s as far as my brain could travel. Until I remembered the closed and abandoned shoe factory I’d worked at for nearly ten years. The loading dock back in the shipping department had been pretty secluded, and with the place closed down, it’d be absolutely deserted now.
A chain-link fence surrounded the lot, but vandals and looters had long since broken the padlocked cable keeping the rickety entrance closed. The gate hung open limply by one hinge. As we drove through, Isobel sat forward with interest. It’d only been eight months since the factory had closed, but grass and weeds had already grown up between the cracks in the asphalt parking lot, making the place look as neglected as it was. I rolled the truck slowly over broken beer bottles and around the main building to the back. It seemed creepier now that no life or light shone from within. Cracked and shattered glass in the windows only helped along the desolate sensation.
“Damn,” I murmured, shaking my head. “I didn’t realize it’d feel so dead around here.”
Empathetic to my mood, Isobel quietly asked, “Where did you work?”
“Back here,” I answered, pulling into a tight squeeze between buildings to arrive at a courtyard where the loading dock still stood.
When I saw the work of Black Crimson on one wall, I sucked in a surprised breath. “Well, that’s new.”
The painting portrayed a woman pointing a flashlight into a dark corner only to illuminate a man who was holding up his hand to shield himself from her. The poor dude looked as if he had an abundance of hair, long mane, shaggy beard and all. Or maybe it was a bear, not a man. I wasn’t sure. But he definitely didn’t want her looking at him.
The quote next to the painting read:
Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.
“Oh! I know who said that.” Isobel brightened. “It was Martin Luther King, Jr.” She smiled over at me. “I wrote a paper about him in high school.”
I nodded, putting the truck into park and killing the engine. Silence and then darkness greeted us as I turned off the headlights. In the fading daylight, you could barely make out the graffiti on the wall.
“I wonder which fairy tale that couple’s supposed to be,” I mused aloud, still studying the artwork.
Isobel turned to me, blinking. “You can’t tell?”
“What? You can?”
Her smile was a pure tease and absolutely stunning. Instead of answering me, she said, “I have a present for you.”
I blinked. “You do?” Then I laughed and shook my head. “Why?”
She shrugged, looking embarrassed and abashed as she tugged a small box from her purse. “It’s nothing fancy. Just a…a thank-you gift, if you will?”
“Thank you?” I murmured, growing intrigued. “What am I being thanked for?”
“For being you. For being kind to me when I didn’t deserve it. For showing me not everyone cares so much about appearances. For showing me the world isn’t such an awful place after all. For making me want to live again.”
My lips parted. “Isobel,” I whispered, speechless and dazed. “I…” I started to shake my head, unable to take credit for so much. It didn’t seem possible I could make that big of an impact on anyone’s life. But from the way she was looking at me, I couldn’t deny the possibility either.
Overwhelmed to learn I’d influenced her that much, I blew out a hard, bracing breath, trying to keep myself together.
Isobel misconstrued my reaction completely, though. She probably thought I didn’t feel the same about her or something, but she muttered, “You’re right,” and started to shove the box back into her purse. “I don’t know what I was thinking. This was stupid and silly. I shouldn’t—”
“No!” I covered her hand with mine to stop her from withdrawing. When she fell quiet and peeked up from frightened blue eyes, I slowly opened her hand and took the box from her palm.
“Thank you,” I said meaningfully before I dropped my gaze and slipped off the lid. The case looked as if it would hold a piece of jewelry, but when I peered inside the only thing that peered back was myself, in the reflection of a small pocket mirror.
It looked old and well used. Knowing there had to be a story behind it, I drew it out carefully and shifted my thumb over the clouded glass before lifting my face.
“Who did it belong to?”
As if transfixed by the looking glass, Isobel blinked, her gaze reflecting beauty and yet pain. Then her eyes lifted to mine. “My mother. It was one of the few things we saved from the fire that belonged to her. She’d had it tucked away in the family safe along with some pictures my father later framed and hung on the wall in his office. But this…this was the only real thing that was left of hers.”
I s
ucked in a breath. “Oh, Isobel, no.” I pressed the mirror back into her hand. “This is important to you. It’s priceless. I don’t deserve something so special.”
She just stared at me, her lips beginning to tremble. “It is special,” she agreed, “and important, and priceless.” Her voice then went so low I had to strain to hear her confession as she added, “Which is exactly why I want you to have it.”
With my heart expanding two sizes too big for my chest, I folded my hand over hers, trapping the miniature mirror between our fingers. “Are you sure?”
She nodded. “I wouldn’t want anyone else to have it. And I thought…” She drew in a deep breath before continuing. “I thought that whenever you were sad, or in pain, or it felt as if everything was wrong and ugly in the world, you could just look in here, see yourself, and know there’s still beauty left, something worth living for. Because that’s what you’ve done for me, just by being you. You’ve made me want to live again.”
I floundered.
Nothing I could say in return would ever measure up to that. And I didn’t even want to. I just wanted to live in that moment where someone thought I was something.
Eyes growing damp, I blinked repeatedly before spilling out a rusty laugh. “Whoa,” I said before leaning toward her and pressing my brow to hers. Then I interlaced our fingers around the mirror.
“No one’s ever made me feel the way you do,” I admitted.
Her gaze lifted. “Same here.”
With a groan, I disconnected our foreheads so I could slant my mouth across hers. She opened up to me, slipping her tongue around mine and clutching the front of my shirt in her fist as I circled the back of her neck with my free hand and sank my fingers into her hair.
Without looking at what I was doing, I placed the mirror into the cup holder in the center console as smoothly as I could. Then I hauled Isobel across her seat and into my lap.
She laughed against my mouth before moaning and pressing her ass down on my erection. I sucked in a breath and arched up my hips to help her out. Our bodies ground against each other, sparking out an electrical current that arced between us.
