Prologue
EWAN
Five Years Ago
The suit fits really well. Or is it a tux? Frowning, I fidget with the cuffs and try to avoid making eye contact with myself in the mirror. Maybe it doesn’t fit, actually, because it feels a little tight. The suit I wore to my mom’s funeral wasn’t this tight. Not that it mattered, since it was hard to breathe either way. Feeling hot, I tug at the collar. This is definitely wrong.
“Stop pulling at that, kid,” Daniel’s voice says from behind me. I feel like I should tell him not to call me kid. I’m hisboss, after all. Except I can’t legally drink alcohol at my own gallery opening, so maybe he’s right. I sure feel like a kid right now. A kid playing fucking dress-up.
“It’s too tight,” I mutter, rolling my shoulders back. Or trying to, anyway, but the damn jacket istoo tight.
“No it’s not. It’s tailored, which means it’s exactly the size it needs to be. Come sit down.”
Rolling my eyes into the mirror, I turn and walk over to him, slumping down onto the couch. I’m surprised when he doesn’t give me a hard time for wrinkling the pants or something. Instead, he slides over the Scrabble board he’d been fiddling with.
“You ever play?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer before starting to sort the tiles.
I hired Daniel in a daze of insomnia fog, hunched over my laptop and blearily trying to make sense of numbers and words and concepts that seemed intent upon going right over my head. When I’d done an internet search for personal assistants, the list of results had almost made me cry. Everything just feels like too much these days. Getting out of bed, eating food, exercising, going outside for fresh air and sun, drinking water, painting. Painting, painting, painting. All of it, too-fucking-much. Plucking a single person out from the mess of personal assistants had felt very much like the final straw on the camel’s back. I’d chosen Daniel by scrolling aimlessly, closing my eyes, and clicking the cursor. His face looked friendly enough, and I’ve never heard of a serial killer with a name as bland as Daniel Simpson. Hired.
It turns out, even people named Daniel can be a little weird. He’s got a love of Scrabble that borders on obsession, doesn’t wear socks in his shoes, and says things like “rad” and “cool beans.” But if the last two weeks have been any indicator, he’s also a hard worker. He seems to have a good business sense,and even took the initiative last week to bring me groceries after I’d forgotten to get them myself. I’m still not certain what exactly I’m allowed to ask him to do as my assistant, but it hasn’t mattered yet. He just…does things.
Silently, I watch him set up the game. I wonder if I should read a dictionary or something. Brush up on my words so I can actually give him a good game when we play. The thought is exhausting. I can barely drag myself through the steps of a shower some days. I don’t think I can handle Scrabble research.
“We’ve got an hour to kill before the gala,” Daniel says, propping his phone where he can see the clock. “Plenty of time for me to whoop your butt.”
I smile but can’t work up a laugh. Today hasn’t been a great day, and if I wouldn’t be shooting myself in my own foot by doing so, I’d cancel the damn gallery opening and crawl into bed instead. There’s a strange weight sitting in my chest, hindering my breathing. Tears have been tickling the back of my throat all day. I want to hit the reset button and start fresh. I want to go to my first gala as up-and-coming-artist Ewan Fate and not sad-lonely-and-pathetic Ewan Fate.
I glance up at the man sitting next to me, hair prematurely gray despite his age and lines fanning out from his eyes from how often he smiles. Daniel seems like a good guy. I could talk to him, probably. But he’s still a stranger, and I don’t want a stranger. I want someone so familiar to me I know their likes and dislikes better than my own. I want to look over and see sandy-blond hair and blue eyes, ruddy cheeks, and long, leanly muscled arms. I want to smell the sea.
Blinking to hold back the tears that suddenly seem very intent on making an appearance, I stare hard across the room. Shiloh isn’t here, and thinking about him won’t change that. Thinking about him only ever hurts, and that’s not a side of me I need to give in to today. I don’t have the time.
The cell phone in my pocket feels like it weighs a hundred pounds. As though half of my soul isn’t withered and dead, but simply on the other end of the line, waiting for me. I could call him. I memorized Shiloh’s number the day he got his first phone, and I doubt it’s changed in the past two years. I doubt anything about Shiloh has changed in those two years. I’m the one who’s different—a shriveled husk of the person who used to leap off the cliffs in Siren’s Point, laughing with Shiloh as we hit the water.
I can’t call him. Not yet. Not until I can eat three meals and take a shower and paint all in the same day. Not until I don’t have to write down every single simple task on a to-do list, because otherwise, I won’t remember or care enough to do any of it. I’ll call him once I sleep a full eight hours through and can feel the sun on my face without wanting to hide.
“Your turn,” Daniel prompts. I look down at the Scrabble board, choking on a breath that feels like a sob when I see what word he played.
Lobster.
Chapter One
EWAN
The plane touches down with a soft thump. Lifting the plastic blind covering the window, I squint into the sudden brightness. Leaning back in my seat, I stare sightlessly out at the runways, watching with disinterest as planes are shuffled around the terminals. The overhead announcement system comes on, the attendant’s voice a low buzz in my ear as they let me know I’m allowed to turn my electronics back on. I wait until we slow to a stop at our terminal before I reach for my phone, clicking off the airplane mode and watching as the device struggles against the onslaught. The majority of the texts and emails come from Daniel, my personal assistant, which also means that I’m unable to ignore the majority. Now, the texts from Ryan Fishe, looking for information about current projects? Those, I can ignore. And, happily, do.
I wait until my phone calms down before opening my text thread with Daniel and responding to the most recent. IfI don’t, he’ll continue pestering me for signs of life. Honestly, he’ll probably continue pestering me no matter what, but at least now he won’t go sending the police for a welfare check.
The seat belt light turns off. I wait obediently for the attendant to give me permission to stand, which he does with a grateful smile sent my way. I can only imagine the type of people he usually has to cater to on private flights such as this. Something tells me the majority of his passengers aren’t good listeners.
I’m exhausted, and by the time I’ve deplaned and am waiting at baggage claim, I’m flagging hard. Probably, I shouldn’t be driving all the way to Siren’s Point. Probably, I should head over to the airport hotel and reserve a room for the night; hit the road early, after a restful night of sleep. Of course, because “restful” and “sleep” are two words that don’t belong in my vocabulary, it seems pointless to even try. Instead, I wander over to the vending machines and get myself as many energy drinks as I’m able to carry with two hands.
Cracking one open, I wince as I swallow a mouthful. Disgusting, and probably not the wisest choice for my blood pressure. I take another drink, watching as the baggage carousel starts rotating. By the time the machine spits out my bag, I’ve made my way through three of the energy drinks and am already experiencing a pleasant buzz. Also, a hand tremor, but seeing as I’m not going to be painting for the next twelve hours—perhaps longer—it ranks pretty low on my current list of concerns.
The woman at the car rental counter types and types and types after I show her my reservation. Brow furrowed, eyeslocked on the computer monitor, she types some more. I stand there, 200 grams of caffeine flowing through my veins like lightning, and crack open energy drink number four. The sound breaks—I glance at her name badge—Tiffany away from where she may or may not be struggling to find my reservation. I smile at her and make a cheers motion in her direction. Bottoms up. Pretty soon, I’m going to be able to taste colors.
“There seems to be an issue with your reservation,” she says apologetically.
“Seems that way,” I agree.
