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Next election I’m giving a million dollars to whoever runs against this tool.
“Christopher didn’t know she was…” He starts rambling some bullshit excuses, but I stop listening. Because I’m pulling up my driveway, and parked in front of my house is a douchey bright white G Wagon that I don’t recognize.
“Shut up!” I shout, and the mayor wisely stops speaking. I stomp on the gas and race the rest of the way to my house. “The only reason I didn’t make your pig of a brother a missing personthat nightis because my sister didn’t want me to ruin her party. But the event is done. And so is my patience.” I slam the car into park. “I told him exactly what would happen if I saw him again. And I don’t fucking exaggerate.”
I cut the call and exit my SUV, crossing the distance to the front door in three strides.
I don’t know if I need to stop firing my security guards, or if I need to fire all of them, because I’m supposed to be alerted about every fucking visitor. And no one said a fucking word to me about someone being here.
Clenching my jaw, I fling the door open and head straight to the center of the house.
This person isn’t here for me, so that leaves only a few options on where they’d be.
When I storm into the kitchen, there’s no one.
Studio.
I’m not even halfway down the hall to Savannah’s studio when I hear the voices. Hers. And a man’s voice.
I take two running steps before I realize what I’m doing.
I can hear Savannah talking in an upbeat rhythm, her voice light and happy, so it’s not like the man is hurting her.
The man that I don’t know, who’s in her private home studio.
The door’s been left wide open, which saves me from breaking it down.
When I step into the room, my gaze zeroes in on Savannah’s back as she lifts one of her completed canvases off an easel and replaces it with a different painting.
I’m not sure what they’re doing, but she’s wearing loose black pants and a fitted shirt, not her usual painting clothes.
Duke is lounging on the floor near her, but his lifted head is aimed at me.
At least someone is aware of their surroundings.
“I think the cluster idea is best.” Savannah lifts another painting, holding it up next to the first. “All the tones grouped together by family.”
“Agreed,” the male voice jerks my attention over to the man, whose back is also to me, while he drags two easels closer together. “Then we can alternate the groupings in contrasting––Gah!”
I’m already moving towards him, when the man turns mid-sentence and spots me.
Picking up on my body language, Duke is at my side before I even make it three strides, growling low in his throat.
“What are you…” Savannah starts to laugh, but then she turns and must see me because she shouts my name.
When I don’t stop, she tries again. “Husband!”
“Husband?!” The man––who is about my height, closer to Savannah’s age, and better looking than I care for a man to be around my wife––stumbles back into one of the easels.
“Who the fuck are you?” My voice is louder than strictly necessary and Duke echoes it by barking twice before he goes back to growling.
Duke won’t do more than make noise unless I tell him to. And right now, I’m tempted to tell him to.
The man catches Savannah’s painting before it can fall.
“Orlando!” He holds the painting in front of himself like a shield. “I’m Orlando!”
I’m less than ten feet away from the man named Orlando when Savannah slides into my path on sock-covered feet.
