Shameless

by Lisa Renee Jones

  My phone buzzes with a message, pulling me back to the present, and I glance down to find a message from Nick: Client losing his fucking mind. I’ll be another two hours. I’ll bring home dinner.

  My stomach does this funny loopy thing it’s never done in my life with the words: Bring home dinner. Like home is something we share. It’s just a phrase, of course. It means nothing, but then, Nick does nothing by accident. And I’m officially falling so damn hard for Nick that there is no turning back. I’m in this, no matter how broken I end up.

  I text back: I can make my famous pancakes.

  He replies with: Only if you make them naked.

  I laugh and type: Batter splatters.

  Good point, he replies. I want every inch of that gorgeous body feeling good next to mine. Call you soon, sweetheart.

  Sara appears in my doorway. “It’s getting late. Are you staying a while?”

  “Are you?”

  “Chris isn’t answering his phone, which means he’s lost in his work. I figure I’ll work another hour or so and then take him dinner.”

  “Nick is working late. I figured I’d stay another hour and then head home.” Home. Now I said home.

  Sara catches it too, her lips curving. “It’s nice to have you here in the city. I want coffee. You want coffee? They make a killer white mocha next door.”

  “White mocha?” I ask, perking up. “I’m in.” I grab my purse and slip it over my shoulder before sticking my phone inside.

  “Great. We can dash over there and be back in a few minutes.”

  We make our way to the door, and step outside, both of us hugging ourselves against a chilly wind, the smell of the ocean air touched by the scent of fresh, hot nuts from a nearby vendor. In that moment, I decide I love this city. The smells. The art. The energy. Nick.

  “We have arrived,” Sara announces, indicating a door only a block from the gallery.

  “Rebecca’s,” I murmur, reading the writing on the door. “Didn’t Chris paint something dedicated to Rebecca?”

  “He did,” she says, and rather than offering more detail, she opens the door, motioning me forward.

  I enter the adorable little shop, with paintings of people drinking coffee on the walls, and clusters of wooden tables, while booths line the left wall. Sara joins me and we approach the register, where a glass display case allows me to drool over a tempting selection of cookies and sweets.

  “Usual, Sara?” a tall man, with dark brown hair and glasses asks.

  “You know it, Mick,” Sara replies, “and anything Faith wants is on the house now and forever.” She glances at me. “We own this place, too. Mick is our manager, and co-owner.”

  “Oh well then, thank you to you both,” I say, placing my order and it’s not long before Sara and I claim one of the cute wooden booths in the back of the shop, with Mick’s promise to bring us our drinks.

  “So, you own the gallery and the coffee shop,” I say. “That’s a great combination so close together.”

  “Well, there is a connection, which is Rebecca. It’s a long story, but she worked for the gallery. She spent a lot of time here. We were going to re-name the gallery Rebecca’s, but had some name recognition issues and decided to make the coffee shop Rebecca’s. We remodeled it to add these cute booths, and overhauled the menu. We wanted it to be her place.”

  Our order arrives and by the time we’re alone again, despite my curiosity about Rebecca, I never get the chance to ask questions. “Oh yikes,” Sara says. “I just realized I left my purse and phone next door. I need to run back.”

  “Of course,” I say, and we hurry to the door, and back to the gallery.

  “Before you go back to work,” Sara says, “I want to show you something in my office.”

  I follow her to the corner office and step inside, my lips parting instantly. “Oh my God,” I whisper at the sight of a mural on the wall behind the massive mahogany desk. A painting of the Eiffel Tower in Chris’s signature black and white. “It’s incredible,” I murmur, crossing to stand behind the desk, studying the tiny details that few artists ever master.

  “Look up,” Sara says and obediently, my gaze lifts to find another European scene.

  “The Spanish Steps,” I say, and I can’t help myself. I set my cup down and lay down on the floor, staring up at it. More details. More perfection. “Wow.”

  Sara laughs and appears above me. “How’s the view from down there?”

  “Spectacular. He’s incredible, Sara. Each step is different. The shadows. The shading. The texture.”

  “Sara.”

  At the sound of Chris’s voice, my eyes go wide, a cringe following. How did I let myself end up on the floor?!

  “Chris,” Sara says, whirling around to greet him.

  “Fuck, Sara,” he says, his voice growing closer. “Why aren’t you answering your phone?”

  Sara is around the desk in a heartbeat, and I don’t know what to do. Stay down or get up?

  “I forgot it when we went to the coffee shop.”

  “Baby,” he breathes out. “It’s only been a few months.”

  My brow furrows at the curious comment that seems to explain his over-the-top reaction.

  “Seven months,” she says. “I know that’s still not a long time, but we both need to let it go. We need some semblance of normalcy.”

  “Normal?” he asks. “Have we ever been normal?”

  “No,” she says, her voice softening. “And I love that about us.”

  “Keep your phone with you, baby,” he says. “Please.”

  “I will,” she promises. “Stop worrying.”

  “I won’t,” he promises. “Did Faith already leave?”

  “Actually,” Sara says. “She’s on the floor behind the desk.”

  I cringe all over again and suddenly Chris is standing over me, big, blond, and wearing a t-shirt that displays the artistically perfect, multi-colored dragon tattoo sleeve covering his right arm. “Why are you on the floor?” he asks.

  “I was admiring your work. It’s stunning. The detail is perfection and yet you had to do it on a ladder.” I sit up, hands behind me, holding me up. “Is it bad for me to admit I have a crush on you right now? Completely professional, of course, but it’s powerful.”

  Sara laughs and hitches a hip on the desk. “A lot of people feel that way about Chris.”

  Chris squats down in front of me, his intense green eyes boring into mine. “But not you,” he says.

  I blink. “What?”

  “Don’t idolize another artist,” he scolds. “Appreciate their skills. Study their technique, but when you idolize them, you can’t see your own work clearly. Focus on your own work and based on what you’re doing thus far, I can promise you, success will follow.”

  “In fact,” Sara says. “Why don’t you come to work here full time? Chris can mentor you and I get two gifted artists helping me make this place a success.”

  I blanch. “I…I wish that I could, but I can’t. I have the winery to think about.”

  “Don’t you have a management team to run it?” Sara asks.

  “Yes, but it’s complicated. And I can’t afford a misstep. I’m alone—”

  “What about Nick?” she asks.

  “Nick and I are new and I don’t expect him, or want him, to take care of me.”

  “That’s a conversation for you and Sara,” Chris says, “But all I can say is that painters paint.”

  “I know,” I say, “but my family has owned this winery for generations. It was everything to my father. He expected me to run it.”

  “Your father,” Chris says flatly. “That’s another topic for Sara. And on that note, I’m leaving.” He stands up and turns to Sara, and I swear he doesn’t even touch her, and they sizzle.

  “I’ll meet you at home.”

  “I’ll be there soon.”

  “Your phone,” he says.

  “I know,” she says.

  They stare at each other for another few siz
zling moments and then he’s gone. To my surprise, Sara then sits down on the floor next to me, cups in hand, and hands me my coffee. “Sorry about that.”

  “I’m sorry. I feel like I eavesdropped.”

  “You didn’t. And Chris is protective, but he’s not that over the top. There was…an incident in Paris.” She cuts her gaze and visibly shakes herself and then rotates to lean on one shoulder and face me. “I can’t talk about it. Maybe one day, I’ll tell you. Not now. Even if we knew each other that well, I’m just not ready, but let me say this, Faith. The past year has reminded me that life is short. We only get one chance to live it. Painters paint.”

  “I know, but it’s complicated.”

  “My father is very rich.”

  “Like Chris.”

  “My father is nothing like Chris,” she says. “Chris is strong, tough, dark in ways I understand, but he is kind, generous, gifted, generous. Did I say generous?”

  “And your father?”

  “Brutal. Self-centered. He treated me and my mother horribly. And he wanted me to live the life he designed and when I refused, he disinherited me. But even then, when I had the courage to walk away from him, I took a teaching job, when art was what I’d studied and loved.”

  “Why?”

  “Fear. Money. Stability. You know galleries don’t pay much.”

  “What changed?”

  “I found a journal. Rebecca’s journal. Inside it was all her deepest thoughts, fears, and confessions. Impossibly, it seemed, she wanted to be in this world, too, but resisted for the same reasons I did. But then one day she walked into a gallery, this gallery, and her life changed. She dared to chase her dream. And she was younger than me. Braver. She inspired me. I came to look for her, and she was gone. I never met her. I took her job. She led me to my dreams. To Chris. And now…”

  “I’m here,” I say, rotating to lean against the desk. “And with Nick.”

  “Yes,” she says.

  “I don’t want to get ahead of myself.”

  “Is that comment about your art or Nick?”

  I glance over at her. “Both, I think. Nick and I are new.”

  “I moved in with Chris a few weeks after meeting him and I was terrified. He was bigger than life.”

  I face her. “Yes. Nick is so—everything.”

  “Good. He should be.”

  “I’m not ready for him to be everything.”

  “Because you’re scared?” she asks.

  “Yes. He hasn’t revealed all of himself. I know this. I sense it.”

  “Chris once told me that we are all the sum of all of our broken pieces. You can’t grow if you don’t risk more damage, Faith. You can’t find the person who makes you whole again if you’re afraid. Nick. Your art. Whatever it is, ask yourself: What if there is no tomorrow? Because there was no tomorrow for Rebecca. It can happen to any of us.” She cuts her gaze and swallows hard, seemingly shaken, before she stands up. “I want you to work here,” she says, pushing past the obviously upsetting topic. “I want you to paint one of the offices the way Chris did this one,” she adds. “Pick one. Any one, but if you say you’ll do it, you can’t stop coming here until it’s done.”

  “You want me to—”

  “Yes. Say yes, Faith.”

  “Yes.”

  She opens a drawer and pulls out a key, offering it to me. “Your key. I’ll pay you two hundred thousand dollars a year. I’m going home to my husband. The security system arms if you hit the button by the door.” She starts walking toward the door.

  “Sara,” I say.

  She turns to face me. “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  “No thanks needed. I’m really glad to have you here.” She disappears into the hallway and I believe her. Sara and I are alike in ways few people could understand. And suddenly I have two people in my life who fit.

  I’ve never had anyone in my life that fit.

  But she fits. Nick fits.

  I inhale on a ball of emotions. Fear? Is that what is controlling my decisions? And if it is, how did fear become that powerful in my life? How did I convince myself that fear was strength? Because I did. And it makes me angry. I hate that this is what I’ve become. My purse vibrates with a text and I open my purse to find a message from Nick: I’m outside.

  He’s here. He is always here when I need him and if I let it happen, that will be always. And needing him doesn’t make me weak. It makes me brave. Suddenly, I want to see him, I want to feel what he makes me feel, and see if it feels different after that conversation with Sara. I exit Sara’s office, and hurry to my new office, pausing with my hand on the light switch, envisioning Sonoma on the walls. Or maybe something new and daring. My lips curve and I shut out the light, my pace hurried as I exit into the gallery, a little thrill in my belly as I think of my art on display. I reach the exit, and open the door, punching the security button before I step outside. And there is Nick, looking like sin and sex in his tan suit, leaning against his Audi, the beam of a streetlight illuminating him.

  My heart starts to race and I start walking, his eyes, those intense, blue eyes, following my every step, a curve to his mouth. And the minute I step in front of him, he pulls me to him, that raw, sexy scent of his consuming me. “How the fuck did I miss you this much?” he asks, his mouth closing down on mine. And oh, what a kiss it is. Deep. Passionate. Hungry. Like he has been starving all day and I didn’t know until this minute that I have been, too. “I have something for you.”

  “That wasn’t it?” I ask, sounding breathless. Feeling breathless.

  “That was just hello sweetheart.” He strokes a lock of hair from over my eyes. “I was going to save it for your show, but I think it’s a good way to celebrate you being here today instead of in Sonoma.” He pulls a box from his pocket and opens it to display a jeweled necklace, shaped like a paintbrush and color palette.

  “Nick,” I whisper, completely blown away and not because the stones glisten with reds, blues and greens. It’s the sentiment, the thought he’s put into this. I push to my toes and kiss him. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”

  “You’re perfect, Faith.”

  “No Nick. I’m broken. But I’m pretty ready to be broken with you, if you think you want to be broken with me.”

  “Not broken. Together. Whole. Us. We. You and me.”

  “Yes.” My heart swells all over again. “I like how that sounds.”

  “Me too, sweetheart. And how’s this for a plan for the night? We walk two blocks to the best Mexican food place in town. After we eat at Diego Maria’s, we go home where the process is: Fuck. Paint. Fuck. Paint. Sleep. No nightmares tonight.”

  I smile. “I like that plan.”

  “But do you love it, Faith?” he asks, his voice low, raspy, and I’m not sure we’re talking about the plan or us. Either way, I don’t let fear win this time.

  “Yes,” I say. “I do.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Nick

  Faith and I are up early the next morning, her in her studio painting again, and me back in the basement on the treadmill. I run with the same fierceness I did yesterday, but this time, my mind isn’t on the club, but rather a replay of Beck’s ominous warning about history-fucking-repeating itself, with a repeat of a double murder the outcome. I am stuck in one of those rock-and-a-hard-spot places that I’ve always called myth, and it pisses me off. I can’t delay my actions and risk Faith losing the winery, but before I act, I need a better plan than “I hope like fuck not” when it comes to Faith and I living or dying.

  I punch the stop button on the treadmill, and by the time I step off the belt, I’m already dialing Beck. “Once the inspectors give me an evaluation on the winery,” I say, the minute he answers, “I have to move. I have to file a petition and claim Faith’s rightful inheritance. I can’t give the bank time to undervalue it with their own inspectors, which could well lead to Faith losing the winery.”

  “What’s the timeline?”

  “W
e get the evaluation back today. I meet with my banker later this afternoon. If the evaluation comes back where I need it, we’ll file an emergency request to be in court Wednesday or Thursday, at which time my bank will buy out the note. If the evaluation doesn’t come back where I need it to be, I’ll package it to get it there, and we’ll be in court Thursday or Friday.” I look up to discover Faith standing in the doorway, hugging herself, the look on her face telling me that she heard every word.

  “I have dirt on three people in the bank, and I’ve used it. They aren’t breaking. That means they are either scared or we’re wrong. And I don’t think we’re wrong.”

  “And your solution is what? And don’t tell me you need to think this time.”

  “Whatever action you take, at least getting rid of both of you is harder than getting rid of just Faith, especially with my team watching.”

  “Holy fuck. Is this really what I’m paying you for? Get me answers.” I hang up and focus on Faith. “Hey, sweetheart,” I say, crossing to stand in front of her, my hands on her shoulders. “How is painting going?”

  “Why would you want to delay claiming the winery?”

  “When you take someone out at the knees, you want to know what their reaction will be.”

  “If we’re already with another bank, what can my present bank possibly even do?”

  “The question is, what are they motivated to do and why,” I say, sticking to the truth, but leaving out murder as an option. “Let’s grab some coffee while we finish this conversation.”

  “Nick—”

  I kiss her. “Coffee. Conversation. Me. You. Upstairs.” I turn her toward the stairs, and place her in motion.

  Once we’re in the kitchen, coffee in hand, we lean on the same side of the island facing each other. “I’m very confused by the conversation I just heard. And even your response. Is the bank going to lash out at you? Because I don’t want you to end up with trouble over me.”

  “Sweetheart, you and I are in this together. And when someone goes to this much trouble to get something and you keep them from getting it, you have to be prepared for anything. Especially when you don’t know all of the facts, and we don’t.”