Remember Arizona: A Second Chance Romance (Country Love Collection)

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  He chuckled and popped an eyebrow up that screamed, ‘really?’

  “This is incredible, Tally. You’ve done an incredible job,” he assured me. “I don’t go to art shows often, but everyone is really loving the Bisbee creations. It was a brilliant idea.”

  I blushed, drowning in his effusive compliments. “Thank you.”

  “Is it always like this?” He shifted, putting his arm next to mine so we were both looking at the growing crowd.

  It was opening night, but for a smaller gallery in the quintessential small-town America, I hadn’t expected this.

  “What do you mean?”

  He glanced at me, eyes sparking. “In New York. Is it like this?”

  My head tipped, and I fought through the nagging need pooling between my legs to find an answer. “Sort of.” I cleared my throat. “I’ve only ever worked on smaller exhibits, mostly in Brooklyn, so in that way, yes. The crowd is a little different.”

  His low hum strummed every string in my body to a melody of desire.

  Get a grip, Tally. Just. Friends. Remember?

  Maybe this time, it was the switch from his light, casual appearance, to this dark and decadent one that had my memory failing.

  “Was New York everything you hoped for?” he asked, his eyes focused on the paintings on the far wall though I could tell he wasn’t really seeing them.

  My lips parted. It wasn’t exactly a question about the past, but it was a knock on the door of it. Yet I couldn’t stop from answering.

  “Not exactly,” I told him truthfully. “It was more crowded than I expected and it always smelled of spoiled milk.” My nose wrinkled and Sam chuckled.

  “Spoiled milk?”

  I shrugged. “It was different. Very different from here.” And it wasn’t what I expected, but it was what I needed. “Once I finished school and moved to Brooklyn, it was a little better.”

  Again, he hummed, absorbing my words and deciding what to ask next. “How so?”

  “Quirkier.” It was the only thing I could think of.

  “Like Bisbee?” Now, he looked at me, folding his arms and drawing my eagerly-distracted focus to the swells of his biceps propped against his chest.

  “I said quirky, not bizarre.” We both laughed.

  The full truth was Brooklyn was the closest I got to feeling like I was back in Bisbee. And since I didn’t want to come back here, it was the best I could do.

  “Let’s walk.” Sam reached for my elbow, sending a wave of heat up my arm.

  I looked over my shoulder. My assistant, Kelsie, had arrived this morning. Not really an assistant. I couldn’t afford an assistant. She was still in school at Parsons and asked to intern for me, so I took her up on the offer. Quiet but efficient, she’d been helping me behind the scenes, preparing the flyers and information packets as well as getting travel squared away for the group. Before the doors opened, I’d instructed her on the simple task of checking tickets and handing out information, but when the exhibit got going, I couldn’t bring myself to leave the post—or hand over the job.

  “Kelsie, are you—”

  “I’m fine.” She smiled and nodded rapidly, eager to do something other than watch me be a control freak.

  “Okay.” I sighed and followed Sam’s lead, catching the way Carlos’ attention narrowed on us, momentarily distracted from his fawning fans.

  Sam’s touch drifted from my elbow to my lower back as we filtered into the bustle of people. I turned to face Sam, about to ask him which was his favorite, when someone bumped into me from behind, sending me stumbling forward and crashing into Sam. Chest to chest. Heat to heat. Heartbeat to heartbeat.

  My head snapped up, my chin lagging behind so my lungs could gasp in air, but oxygen was like honey down my throat, sticky and sweet and so slow to satisfy the urgency with which I needed it.

  Caught in his arms, I lost myself in his eyes—in a gaze that held only the memory of that kiss. The urgency. The heat. A connection that was long overdue.

  My focus shifted down to his lips, full and firm, and my own burned with the seal he’d left on them. I wanted one more of those kisses. I shouldn’t, but I did.

  I dragged my tongue over my lips, and his body hardened into steel against me.

  If we both wanted this, why did we agree to being friends?

  My pulse thudded.

  Because he broke your heart and left you behind.

  Like a bucket of ice dumped down my back, I shivered and drew back with a small shake of my head.

  “Sorry,” I apologized breathlessly, carefully disentangling myself from his arms that had found their way around me before I even realized it.

  My eyes snagged on the bright turquoise that held the strings of his tie cinched at the top; in the commotion, it had been wedged partly under the lip of his collar. Without thinking, I reached up for the teal stone and tried not to focus on the hard heat of his chest under my fingers as I straightened it.

  “This is really beautiful,” I murmured, noting all the slight variances in the blue color with reddish-brown threads strung throughout. “Bisbee turquoise?”

  I regretted the question, immediately thinking of the ring he’d made me all those years ago.

  He grunted and nodded, adding as his eyes zeroed in on mine, “My favorite color.”

  “Champagne?” One of the two servers I’d hired stopped beside us, interrupting a moment that definitely needed an interruption.

  “Thank you,” I squeaked, snagging a glass I’d previously declined. But that was before Sam had basically said the color of my eyes was still his favorite.

  Taking a decent gulp, I washed down all thoughts of reading into his response.

  “Handsome Sam.” Nico appeared through the crowd and clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

  I stifled my groan. He was handsome. Especially tonight.

  I didn’t need the constant reminder.

  “Nico.”

  The barrel-chested artist, vibrantly well dressed for the occasion, wrapped an arm around my pretend boyfriend and led us to where his work hung in the far corner.

  “I love your tie. Stunning. Simply stunning.” Nico interrupted the introduction to his work to deliver the compliment. “Tell me it’s local. I have to get one. I have the perfect shirt—Mmm. I have to get one.”

  Sam laughed. “I got it in town.” He cleared his throat. “I can…give you the name of the store later.”

  “Perfect. Now, where was I? Oh yes. I’m going to pretend like you weren’t avoiding me because I want your thoughts,” he charged, stopping in front of his section of the brick wall and extended his arm in presentation.

  Nico had this unique style that I could only describe as a blend of impressionism and modernism. While the subjects of his paintings lacked detail, they still contained a structure of elements. Unlike Carlos who flung paint on the canvas in whatever manner fit his mood.

  “Tell me what you see.” Thankfully, Nico was talking to Sam.

  There were four canvases on the wall. All the same size. Unlike most of the other artists, Nico’s panels where sized and oriented vertically, drawing the observer from one scene to the next. The third panel was in progress, though it was clear it would tie in with the theme of the first two, and the final panel was blank.

  My brow furrowed. Strange for opening night, but I was only the organizer, not the artist. Lord knew, I had a track record for poorly understanding their intent.

  Though I admired his skill and was genuinely intrigued to know his inspiration, the art couldn’t hold my attention from Sam as he stepped closer to regard the paintings.

  His head tipped, highlighting the cords of his neck where they rose up from his collar. “There are two people. Man and woman.” He gestured to the vaguely distinguishable forms set against the warm, hazy background. “Some sort of greeting.”

  “The Meeting,” Nico corrected slightly, but his smile indicated he was pleased. “Exactly.”

  “I assume this is the
same two people, then.” Sam pointed to the second panel.

  “The same couple, yes.”

  I let my attention flick back to the second painting. With that premise in mind, the bright shapes took form against a darker background, the woman pulling away from the man who reached for her.

  “A chase,” Sam muttered.

  “Very close, Handsome Sam.” Nico grinned, clapping his hand. “The Pursuit.”

  The Meeting.

  The Pursuit.

  Strings tugged at my memory—mercifully one instance that didn’t involve Sam.

  “Fragonard?” I breathed the name of the eighteenth-century French Rococo artist, famed for many works including his series titled, The Pursuit of Love, which featured four panels similar to what Nico had up on display, though the lush, decorative style of the original series was nothing like Nico’s version.

  Nico squealed before fanning himself. “Exactly. My own variation, of course. With a slight adaptation for the present exhibit. I’ve decided to complete the final two pieces in the series as part of the local inspiration.”

  I smiled. “I love it.”

  Nico beamed as though he valued my opinion greater than any other. I quickly shook off the notion and asked, “Have you been working on this long?”

  He paused. “Not as long as some of my other works, no. It was more of a recent spark brought on by this change in setting.”

  I tucked my hair back behind my ears, taking another look at the first two panels. “I’m glad you found Bisbee to be so inspiring.”

  There was something familiar about the two paintings. Not familiar, necessarily, but the scenes evoked something inside my chest; they tugged on a string I was afraid to unravel.

  But that was the point of art, wasn’t it? To connect. To feel. To find a bridge to a lost piece of yourself.

  Maybe that piece was my desire to find someone. To be wrapped up in my own pursuit of love.

  Instead, I was embroiled in a show for a man who broke up with me with a different man who’d previously broken my heart. Where was the space for love in that?

  “And the third?” Sam asked of the partially painted, darkened canvas.

  “In preparation for the ghost tour.” Nico visibly shivered with excitement. “I do hope you’ll be joining us.”

  “You bet your Bisbee he will be!” Mee-Maw’s voice jingled into the conversation, her wide bright smile splitting across her tanned, wrinkle-worn skin.

  Great.

  Sam chuckled and returned to my side, his hand returning to my lower back like a magnet to its opposing pole.

  “Nico, this is my grandmother—” I started.

  “You can call me Mee-Maw. Everyone here does.” She extended her hand, and he took it eagerly, recognizing a kindred soul in her effervescent spirit and vibrant personality.

  “Well, aren’t you the most charming person I’ve had the pleasure of meeting,” Nico gushed, nodding quickly to Sam. “Except for Handsome Sam over here.”

  Because why not bring that up in front of my grandmother?

  “Oh, and he is quite handsome, isn’t he?” Mee-Maw patted Sam’s arm firmly. “He’s come a long way from the lanky string of skin and bones he used to be. I do give my famous chili most of the credit for the transformation.”

  I groaned. “Really, Mee-Maw?”

  She harrumphed, wedging a hand on her hip and declared, “Well it certainly wasn’t from all the pizza he ate when you were supposed to be in pottery class.”

  Nico burst into laughter. Meanwhile, Sam’s and my gazes collided with guilty precision.

  “Well.” Nico gasped in air and declared, “I certainly hope you’ll be joining us for the tour as well, my dear Mee-Maw. I suddenly can’t picture the night without your dramatic flair attached to mine.”

  If my grandmother wasn’t eighty and Nico wasn’t gay, I would’ve sworn the two were made for each other. As it was, I saw the unfortunate pairing occur before I could do anything to stop it. On the one hand, there was my grandmother who believed what Sam and I had was real. On the other, there was Nico, who had no idea that it wasn’t.

  “I would be happy to join you, assuming Talia is okay with it.” She looked to me and adjusted the numerous bracelets on her arm.

  I winced and forced a smile. “Sure… why not?”

  “Wonderful. I have an unmatched talent for tracking down ghosts,” she promised. “It’s almost as famous as my chili.”

  “Do you believe in ghosts, Nico?” I asked, searching for further distraction.

  “Oh, yes. Very good question,” Mee-Maw muttered, turning to the artist in question.

  Planting his hands on his hips, his fingers disappearing slightly under the bulge of his stomach, Nico thought for a moment.

  His stare flicked back and forth between Sam and me before it settled on me with more seriousness than the question warranted.

  “I believe people return to a place where they have unfinished business,” he replied thoughtfully and turned to Mee-Maw. “Don’t you agree?”

  My breath stumbled on its way down to my lungs, tripping over the sudden speed bump in my throat set up by his poignant words.

  Mee-Maw gasped loudly before patting him proudly on the shoulder. “I do agree. Completely—”

  “As ghosts,” I broke in, unsure if I was questioning or confirming.

  Nico reached up and flicked an imaginary piece of lint off his shoulder. “In various forms.” He caught my eyes. “Ghosts. Spirits.”

  “Yes, yes,” Mee-Maw prompted. “Oh, this will be a wonderful discussion for the tour. But right now, I’d love to hear about your work. Why, it’s so vibrant and stunning. Brilliantly Bisbee.”

  Sam and I watched as my grandmother and Nico disappeared into their own little world.

  “Did I just tell her she could come on the ghost tour with us?” I muttered and then let out a long groan.

  “Yup.” Sam sighed in resignation.

  “The last time she came and told ghost stories, I couldn’t sleep for over a week,” I whispered harshly. Granted, I was a kid back then, but I was still a wimp when it came to scary things.

  “I remember,” Sam drawled. “I had to sneak over every night to protect you while you slept.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” I blushed, instantly assaulted by a myriad of images of Sam in my bed.

  In none of them were we still kids.

  “Trouble Tally strikes again.” He chuckled, and I swatted him, wincing when the back of my hand connected with the stone wall of his abs.

  “You agreed to go, too,” I reminded him, dropping my head with a groan.

  Sam bent down, his forehead brushing against my hair and his breath breezing over the shell of my ear as he murmured, “How about we focus on finishing the exhibit tonight, go grab some late-night pizza and worry about ghosts tomorrow?”

  I turned my head, putting my face far too close to his. More specifically, putting my lips within striking distance of his.

  “I can’t, Sam,” I breathed, my whole body floating on the brink of reality and that world where only Sam and I existed.

  But no matter how easily I floated, there were still anchors I was chained to. For my own safety.

  My heart thudded heavily in my chest, my body temperature rising under the heat of his stare.

  “Talia!”

  The invisible thread that tied us severed with Kelsie’s call.

  “Tally,” Sam pleaded, his voice woven with steel threads of sorrow, though I wasn’t sure if it was to convince me of his sincerity or warn me I wouldn’t escape this conversation.

  With a smile and a nod, I turned back to the front of the gallery, refusing to look back behind me at the handsome man who haunted me.

  I’d been scared of the Bisbee ghosts when I was younger, it was true. But now, the only ghost I was afraid of was the heartbroken girl of my past who’d fallen in love with her best friend.

  And the only thing haunting me was the very real fear that everything I
felt for Sam had never died at all—and that our story was only left unfinished.

  “Beer?”

  Nico was at my shoulder holding two crisp light beers in each hand.

  “I shouldn’t,” I told him. I already wasn’t a fan of ghost tours. But then I reminded myself of who was coming on this tour, and I reached for the offered glass.

  “You okay, Tally dearest?” He arched an eyebrow at me and I quickly nodded, catching a few of the other artists glancing at me in my periphery.

  For all the detriment it had done to me internally, that kiss at the mine had completely burned away the framework of fabrication Carlos had been insisting on. And it showed. He was sulkier and snippier than before and grew more annoyed with Kendall and her attachment to social media and her phone by the moment.

  “Yeah. It’s just a long week.”

  “It’s only Wednesday,” Nico drawled, a grin poking a dimple into one round cheek.

  I glared at him and took a long sip of the beer, resting my elbow on the bar.

  We sat inside the Old Bisbee Brewing Company. The brick-covered beer company was a must-see on the famous Brewery Gulch, a short alley lined with nostalgic architecture that housed modern microbreweries. Western facades dripped with bright signs for new businesses, but the inside air was heavy with hops and history. The quaint atmosphere dimly lit and the bar seating and few plain booths filled with our group of artists.

  More than the rest of Bisbee, Brewery Gulch felt like a twilight zone. Modern day amenities in the trappings of the past.

  Kind of like me.

  I woke up every day, going through the motions of my new life. But I couldn’t shed the past. It clung to me like a tall, dark, Native American shadow.

  Taunting me.

  Tempting me.

  Since I’d turned down Sam’s pizza offering at the gallery, things had been tense. I rode with Mee-Maw to the gallery Monday and Tuesday since she was teaching two early jewelry-making classes at her new job, but Sam still showed up to drop off coffee and a kiss on top of my head. A reminder that I couldn’t run forever.

  But it was my fault. I’d trapped myself in this cage of my own making.