Page 31 of Sight of Fate

“Double major. Illustration and graphic design,” she answers without thinking, and I almost smile in satisfaction. She flicks a glance at me, but I take another bite.

“You know, we have a graphic design department here if you decide you want to work on a few projects,” I say and watch her eyes light up with interest. “At the next staff meeting, introduce yourself to Gina. She runs the department. Ask her what kind of talent she needs for the next few projects and see if any of them appeal to you.”

“You wouldn’t mind?” she asks, a line between her brows.

“I applaud initiative, but more than anything, I want you to be happy.”

She stares at me for a long second. “From a work perspective or a personal one?”

“From an everything perspective,” I tell her as I get up and grab the dessert. “So, illustration. Did you start drawing because of your visions, or did the sketching come first?”

Her lips curve in a sad smile. “The sketching. My mother was an artist. Painter, actually. She loved it all. Oils, acrylics, watercolors. One of my earliest memories is sitting on the floor in her studio with my crayons spread out, watching her wield the brush like it was an extension of her most creative thoughts.”

I set down a plate with a s’mores cookie on it, and she smiles.

“Do you paint too?”

She shakes her head. “I tried, but pencil or charcoal is more my medium.” She turns her head at the knock on the office door.

“Teague, do you want me to come back?” I shift my gaze from her to Tim, who’s standing in the doorway. I’d been so engrossed in her story, I didn’t hear him approach. “No, give me five minutes. I’ll meet you in the conference room across the hall.”

Ignoring her protests, I clean up and stash the containers in the fridge. “Guess I’ll have to take dessert to go. Same time tomorrow?”

She looks slightly bemused but nods her agreement.

Chapter Fifteen

CHARLI

It’s been years since I talked about my mom to anyone, much less someone I met less than a week ago. Yet, I found myself wanting to tell him all about her, which would be bad. She was a pretty popular artist with showings at galleries across the globe, and it wouldn’t be too hard for someone as sharp as Teague to put two and two together.

After work, Teague drove us home, but had to leave to pick up an order, so I rode the elevator up alone.

Macklin’s waiting at my door when I step into the hallway. In dark jeans and a grey flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his massive forearms on display, he looks like a man who can take care of anything, including a wolf shifter like Leif. I glance down at his massive hands and mentally grin. Must have hurt like hell, not that I feel bad for Leif. Macklin straightens the minute he sees me, a slow smile spreading across his ruggedly perfect face, which instantly warms me from the inside out.

“Hi,” I greet him, wondering why he’s here.

“Charli,” he replies in a deep tone. “I’m upgrading the building to a biometric security system. Instead of a key, your fingerprint will unlock everything—elevator, garage, your apartment. Do you mind if I install the reader on your door and hook everything up?”

Taken aback, I stare at him. “Is there a lot of crime in Greystone?” Should I be worried?

He shakes his head. “Not really. We take care of our own.”

I bet. I still haven’t wrapped my head around the idea of supernaturals, but the thought of facing shifters and vampires and gargoyles is enough to make my knees shake. “Oh, then why the upgrade?”

“With you living here, I refuse to take any chances,” he informs me, taking the key from my hand and unlocking the door. “I want you to feel safe. Like this is your home.”

I stand there, mouth open, trying to figure out what to say. His words slide beneath my armor in a way I didn’t expect. It’s been a long time since someone cared if I was safe or had anything more than four wheels to call home. Not that I’m ready to call Greystone home. I’ve moved some stuff into the apartment, but I haven’t unpacked yet.

“Here.” He bends down and picks up a brown bag from the floor. “With over two feet of snow, it will be tough to get to the grocery store. This should tide you over until they plow the roads again.”

In disbelief, I stare at him. “First Teague, now you. I’m feeling spoiled. Thank you.” I hold out my hands, but he shakes his head.

“It’s heavy,” he says, standing to the side.

“How much do I owe you?”

“You don’t owe me anything. Think of it as a welcome gift.”