Frostbite

The urge to call Eleni is strong, but I resist. She can go to hell. It’s Raelyn who needs me. She needs all of me.

“It’s been here, in your bedroom, all this time?”

I nod. “It’s been here. I think it’s been waiting for you, just like I have.”***Her gaze hasn’t left the painting since I held her as she cried. To know that she believed her work was stolen when it was sold right out from under her makes my blood boil.

Raelyn deserved better than this.

“That’s the first painting I ever did of myself,” she whispers.

I wrap my arms around her from behind. “It’s you in a field. There’s happiness in your surroundings, but sorrow in your solace.”

Her body shakes with a silent sob, so I bring her closer. I drop my lips to her ear. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”

“You see it, don’t you?” she asks. “The loneliness. The fear. You see it all, don’t you?”

“I feel it.” I kiss her cheek. “I feel the depth of your emotions when I look at the painting. That’s why I had to have it.”

For the first time, she turns from the painting to face me. “You kept it safe for me.”

I nod. “I did.”

“There were always people going in and out of Eleni’s compound. She said it was taken when she wasn’t looking. She swore that she spoke to the police about it, but the painting was never recovered.”

“I gave her five thousand dollars for it.” I wince. “She told me the artist would be grateful that I bought it.”

Raelyn’s hands rest in the center of her chest. “I had no idea.”

Nodding my head, I look into her eyes. “I thought you were a guy. I thought Ray with a ‘y’ painted this. I searched for him online and came up empty.”

That lures a small laugh from her. “I’m not a guy.”

I rake her from head-to-toe. “Clearly.”

“You didn’t make the connection when we met?” she questions.

I’m ashamed to admit it, but I need to come clean, so I do. “Until tonight, I thought your name was Raelyn Jones.”

This time the laugh is heartier, more joyful. It blooms somewhere deep inside of her and spills out. “Why would you think that?”

“This is fucking embarrassing,” I confess. “I assumed your surname was the same as Dexie’s. She wasn’t wearing a ring when we met at the auction.”

“She’s pregnant.” She holds her hands in front of her stomach. “Very pregnant.”

“You don’t need a husband to have a baby,” I point out with a chuckle.

“True,” she agrees. “I meant that because she’s pregnant, her fingers are swollen. She can’t wear her rings until after the baby arrives.”

I smile at the way her voice changes when she says the word ‘baby.’

“So all of this time, you thought I was Raelyn Jones?”

Nodding, I close my eyes. “Guilty as charged.”

Her hand on my chin soothes me. I open my eyes to find her staring at me. “You know me now.”

“I do.” I want to know more, but I don’t know if I’ll get that chance. Maybe I need to create that chance, so the best thing in my life doesn’t get on an airplane and move to another continent.

“Do you have other paintings, Raelyn? If you do, I’d love to see them.”Chapter 24RaelynI hold my breath as Calder studies the images of my paintings on my phone’s screen. He hasn’t said a word since I gave him the phone and told him to scroll through them.

Each time I complete a painting, I take a picture of it.

Other than the painting hanging in Dexie’s townhouse and this one in Calder’s bedroom, only two of my paintings belong to someone other than me. Both went to a woman I met at the airport on my way to London.

She was sitting next to me in the terminal as we waited to board our flight. The fact that she was nosy paid off for me because once she caught a glimpse of the photos of my paintings, she asked where to purchase one. That one became two, and with an exchange of our contact details and a few hundred dollars cash in my palm, we agreed that I’d have them shipped to her flat in London.

Dexie handled those arrangements for me.

As the plane left the runway that day, I cried tears of happiness. It was the first time I felt pride bloom in my chest. Someone not related to me liked my work enough to want to buy not one but two of my creations.

“Where do you store these paintings?” Calder’s head pops up with the question.

We’re sitting on the edge of his bed. Calder is still shirtless, and I’m wrapped in his robe. I’ve never been more comfortable in my life.

“Dexie’s townhouse,” I say. “Rocco, her husband, knows a lot about art, so he takes care of them.”