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“No, you don’t,” I agree and wrap my arm around her shoulders.
“I worry that this Heather and her child might try and sue the family,” Maeve says, tapping her nail on her coffee mug. “If Constance truly is his daughter, Heather could attempt to get more than what’s in those accounts.”
“We’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it,” Maggie says. “But for now, I need to move on. I know it’s only been a few weeks, but with everything I’ve learned, I can’t continue wallowing and worrying about someone who clearly didn’t love me. It’s a waste of time. So, I brought something.”
She leaves the room and comes back, carrying a box.
“Are you moving in?” I ask her.
“No. But I’ve put the house on the market and might be looking for a place soon. This is Joey’s computer, his phone, his briefcase, and wallet. Some other odds and ends. I can’t throw it away because it’s early, and what if someone needs something? But I can’t have it near me because it’s too tempting to keep looking through stuff. I need you to hide it from me, but keep it just in case.”
“I can do that.” I take the box and set it out in the sunroom for now. I know just where I’ll put it. When I come back to the kitchen, Anastasia is in the pantry, rooting around.
“I can make muffins and bacon and eggs if anyone wants some breakfast,” she calls out.
“I like her,” Shawn says to me. “Hell, yes, we want some breakfast.”
“Oh, Kane has champagne in here,” Anastasia says with a triumphant hop as she walks back into the kitchen. “Mimosas, anyone?”
“You can stay,” Maeve says, then looks at me. “She’s staying.”
“If I have anything to say about it, aye.” My eyes are on the woman I love as she readies pots and pans, pulls ingredients out of the fridge, and sets the oven to preheat. “And not just because of her cooking skills.”
“I saw her in the T-shirt,” Keegan says and then starts to laugh when I glare at him. “You know I have to jab at you about that. Probably until the day you die.”
“You’ll be the first to die if you keep talking like that.”
“Do they threaten each other with death often?” Anastasia asks.
“Daily,” Maggie says. “They don’t mean it. And, what did I miss?”
“I’ll tell you about it later. It might have been the most embarrassing moment of my life,” Anastasia says.
“Oh, this’ll be good.”* * *“What in the bleeding hell do you think you’re doing?”
I’m glaring, ready to punch the kid who’s fucking with my glass.
“I’m doing what Debbie asked me to, sir.”
“Well, I know Debbie isn’t stupid enough to tell you to put that there, so I’m going to advise you to stop right now and get the hell out of here.”
“Yes, sir.”
He marches out of the room as quickly as his overgrown feet can carry him, and I rub the back of my neck as I stare at the space around me.
The exhibit should be set up by now. I busted my ass to have the pieces finished and delivered to the museum three days ago.
“You really have to stop scaring my help.” Debbie walks into the room, her heels clicking on the floor. “I thought I was going to have to give him a sedative.”
“He was putting the red piece here.” I point to the corner and watch as she deflates in defeat.
“Okay, fair enough. I’ll go over the sketches with the help again.”
“Feck it, I’ll put it together myself.”
“Kane, you’re the artist. You don’t have to do that.”
“But I don’t trust anyone else to do it, Debbie. This is the most important exhibit of my life, and it’ll be done right.”
She tips her head to the side, watching me with curiosity written all over her face. “All of your work is important.”
“Not like this,” I mutter and move the red piece to the side, then slip the purple where it’s supposed to go. “Pass me that cart.”
“Do you want to tell me why this one is more important than the others?”
“No.” I carefully move the centerpiece, the most important part, onto the cart. It’s too heavy for me to move across the room alone.
“This new work is more sensual than you’ve done before,” Debbie says, walking slowly back and forth, taking it all in. “The twisty lines, the way it looks like that piece there is a couple intertwined with each other.”
It’s because this room is us, Anastasia and me. From the greens and blues of our time on the beach to the red-hot heat of intimacy. The colors bleed into each other, the pieces lock together.
It’s Anastasia.
And I need it to be perfect because she’ll be the first to see it finished.
“I’ve decided to add a couple of pieces,” I inform Debbie, who only scowls at me. “You’ll have them before the weekend since I’m heading out of town for a couple of days.”
