It was Dane’s turn to laugh. Audra shot him a somewhat guilty smile, her lips tipping up at the same time her brow wrinkled. She was so damn pretty. Those eyes, those lips, that pointed chin. He tore his gaze away as he moved toward the window to stand in front of the last easel in that row. His expression sobered as he gazed at the drawing, the woman’s face turned away, her hair cascading around full, round breasts, nipples exposed through the strands. It was . . . mesmerizing. It looked so real Dane could almost believe it was a black and white photograph if he squinted his eyes. “Wow,” he whispered as he felt the girl’s warmth come up beside him. “This one is incredible.” He glanced at the girl and saw the shy pleasure in her expression, as well as the blush that was back on her cheeks. He turned toward her. “Is this yours?”
She turned, looking at him as she nodded, some elusive energy flowing between them. It felt warm and good, and Dane wanted to step into it, gather it somehow.
He stared at her for a moment. “You’re”—he glanced at the drawing—“amazing.”
She let out a breathy laugh, still looking shy. “Thank you.”
“I’m Dane.”
She smiled softly, her eyes skittering away, but finding their way back. “Audra.”
Audra. Dane returned her smile. He went to move closer to her and knocked the chair in front of the easel, a stack of what looked like sketch pads falling to the floor. “Damn . . . sorry,” he said, bending to pick them up.
Audra sucked in a breath, falling to her knees where the pads had landed. “It’s okay, please. I’ve got it,” she said, a note of alarm in her voice.
“No, it’s my fault,” Dane said, picking one up and placing it on the chair. But he’d set it on the edge and the loose pages from within fell out, raining down on their hands as they both tried to gather the pads of paper. They both froze as a drawing came to rest on the knuckles of Dane’s right hand. It was him from just a little while earlier, feeding that stray that had looked at him with such hungry longing in his gaze that Dane couldn’t resist sharing his sandwich, even though he’d been as famished as he always was after the swim practice he’d just come from.
His eyes flew to the girl’s, and she looked horrified, her throat moving as she swallowed. “I—”
He looked down, noticing that there were several drawings of him—feeding the stray, deep in thought, smiling as he threw a football back to a group of little kids playing in the park. Dane picked one up—he was sitting on the same bench, his hands in his coat pockets as he stared off into the distance, a look on his face that was peaceful, introspective. He remembered that day—remembered the shi
rt he’d been wearing. It was the three-year anniversary of his dad’s death, and he’d been thinking about him as he watched a family enjoying a picnic in the park. Something about the scene had made him both miss his dad and feel a sense of gratitude that, though he’d lost him, he still had so many good memories of what a good man he’d been. The realization had brought a rightness to his heart, a peace. And the girl, she’d caught that moment. She’d seen something in it that had compelled her to capture it.
He looked up at her and she shook her head, her lip trembling. “I always finish my assignments early. And I sit right by the window . . . I didn’t mean to invade your privacy . . .” Her words were whispered, her expression still wary, fearful, her neck blotchy and her cheeks bright red. She was obviously scared to death of his reaction.
His chest squeezed as his lips tipped upward, a smile meant to reassure her. She blinked several times, her chest rising and falling as her gaze washed over his face, those pink lips parting as she released an exhale of breath.
He looked again at the quickly drawn sketches, seeing himself through her eyes. This girl, she had really seen him. Not just his face, or his wealth, his athleticism, or his popularity—all those things others thought defined him. The things even he sometimes used to define himself. No, she had seen the things he hoped he was—the qualities inside that mattered to him. And as he looked into her eyes, he realized that he wanted very, very much to see her too.
CHAPTER THREE
Audra
Now . . .
The day went by in the blink of an eye as I worked my tail off to get a quote drawn up for the McMasters and prepared the flowers for a wedding we’d been hired to do the following morning. I was thankful for the preparation that allowed me to lose myself in the hands-on work, my brain quieting as I focused on creating one centerpiece after another, arranging the flowers just so.
I made Jay leave at six thirty, but I stayed, finally shutting off my computer, yawning, and calling it a day at around nine.
Fat, fluffy snowflakes fell from the sky as I drove toward home, but it didn’t feel overly frigid. The snow would likely be gone by morning and Trina Spellman would get a crisp, but lovely wedding day with blue skies and air that smelled like winter—icicles and a far-off tinge of smoke.
I let myself into my dreary, rundown gabled-front home, the house I’d lived in for most of my life, and hung my jacket on the coat tree by the door. After a quick shower, I changed into a worn pair of sweats and stood in front of the microwave as I waited for a frozen pasta meal to heat. Another exciting Friday night. I didn’t mind. Mostly. Or . . . usually. Usually I didn’t mind. I liked the peaceful regularity of my life. I enjoyed the quiet, the expected. Most days I was so exhausted I practically fell into bed anyway, only ever at home to eat and sleep. Even in the winter, I usually had a weekend event that kept me busy, kept me working.
So why did I feel this strange sadness tonight? Why did the quiet of my house seem not as tranquil as it normally did, but . . . lonely? So lonely. I tapped my fork on the counter as I watched my dinner spin on the glass tray in the microwave in front of me. It was that photograph and that story. They’d both dredged up the edges of memories I didn’t want to think about.
When my meal was done, I took it and a glass of wine into the living room and sat on the couch, placing the steaming box of pasta and my wineglass on the coffee table in front of me. I clicked on the television to a local news station and began eating as I watched. I glanced at my dad’s old recliner, picturing him sitting there the way he had once upon a time, his expression glum, his eyes distant, physically present but emotionally unavailable.
Sadness settled in my gut, that old familiar guilt that surrounded me here.
I should move. There were a few good memories in this house, but nothing I liked about it aesthetically, nothing I could really call my own. Everything was old and worn and someone else’s style. The warehouse where I worked spoke of me and what I loved, but I couldn’t exactly live there. Yes, I should sell this place, but it needed so many repairs before I could list it, and right now, I didn’t have the money to make even one of them.
When I was done with my meal and my wine, and had watched a little more news, I brushed my teeth and got in bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. I closed my eyes and began drifting to sleep, a howling sound coming from somewhere deep inside of me. I fisted the blankets, my eyes popped open, and I exhaled a sharp gust of breath when I realized it was only the wind. Yes, only the wind.
Wasn’t it?
I dreamed, and in my dream I was underground. Live. Breathe! My heart galloped and my lungs burned as I pushed through the hard soil, the world opening up in a sudden blinding stream of glittering white. Snow. It was snow. Frozen crystals melted as I stretched upward, breaking open the final hard crust of ice. Up, up to where the sun was breaking over the mountains, flooding the world with color. With the sudden freedom, happiness spiraled through me, making me want to shout with glee. And that’s when I turned and saw his face. Leaning over me, he wore that same look of reverence I remembered. But as suddenly as happiness had gripped my spirit, so did misery. “You didn’t protect me,” I said. “Why?”
His expression grew sad as well. “You didn’t let me.”