Leaning Into Touch (Leaning Into Series Book 4)

by Lane Hayes

  Leaning Into Touch

  Lane Hayes

  Copyright © 2017 by Lane Hayes

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Places, names, characters and events are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or deceased, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover Design by Reese Dante

  For Bob- My personal Picasso, my heart, my world, my everything. You are my favorite work of art. Perfectly imperfect and infinitely priceless.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Leaning Into the Look- Coming early 2018

  Excerpt from Leaning Into the Look by Lane Hayes

  About the Author

  Also by Lane Hayes

  1

  “Touch has a memory.”—John Keats

  Golden light streamed across the hardwood museum floor and cast a rectangular shadow against the stark white wall. Whispered voices and muted laughter broke the silence every once in a while, but it was a quiet day. Then again, it was a Tuesday afternoon in March. It was safe to think I’d have the cordoned-off wing to myself with minimal static noise to interrupt my concentration.

  Staring at the proposed layout for the final installation of a contemporary sculptor’s exhibit wasn’t exactly nuclear science, but I liked the solitude. There was something comforting about being alone with a renowned artist’s work. Sometimes I had a fanciful notion I could communicate with their ghosts. Imagine being locked in a room with Matisse and chatting about anything from his vibrant color palette to his opinion of Picasso’s work.…

  Scratch that. I was pretty sure Matisse only spoke French, which served as a reminder that my number as a junior curator at the Modern Museum of Art was almost up. The next few assignments required a better than passing comprehension of French and Spanish. My two years of high school French weren’t going to cut it. Once this installation was complete, I was out of a job. Unless, of course, I didn’t mind collecting tickets at the front desk or moving to the sales department. If it wasn’t a lethal combination of something I had zero interest in and a major pay cut, I’d be tempted to overlook my degree from Stanford University to roam the hallowed halls of one of my favorite places in the world. Alas, I liked to eat.

  I glanced down at the plans distractedly. There was nothing more to do here. The audio tags corresponded to the assigned codes and the dimensions between the pieces matched the curator’s specifications. The room was complete. If it had been any other day, I would have given the space a cursory look and moved on, anxious to start the next project. But this was it. It was time to figure out what came next.

  A woman’s high-pitched laughter broke through my reverie. I scowled at the shrill sound. She was obviously a museum novice. Most people over ten years old understood museums were like churches. It was rude to speak at a normal volume or laugh like you were bellied up to a bar. Hey, I liked a good time as much as, if not more than, the next guy. If a party was heading toward dancing on tables and losing precious articles of clothing, I was usually the one with a tequila bottle in hand, body-slamming people out of the way to secure my place in the middle of the action. But in a museum? Never.

  Of course, that was when my cell vibrated before blaring a sappy song from the seventies. I really had to change that, I mused as I fished my phone from my pocket. I glanced at the display. Missed call from Jen. A text message popped up a second later.

  What’s up with Mom? She’s acting weird.

  I stared at my sister’s message. Returning her text and fielding multiple questions about our mother would take longer than a live conversation. I blew out a rush of air and pressed Call.

  “Is she okay?” Jen asked by way of greeting.

  “I’m sure she’s fine, and I’m also sure she’s at work. Like me. Why are you freaking out?”

  “She called this morning and she sounded off. Overly emotional, you know?”

  “Mom’s always emotional,” I reminded her as I stuffed the plans into my binder before heading for the exit. “I can’t talk now, Jen, but I’ll call her later and—”

  “Can you visit her?”

  “I guess but—”

  “I’m worried and I’m too far away to do anything myself. I think it has something to do with Dad but she’s not saying what, and he sounds perfectly happy. I don’t get it.”

  “They’ve been divorced for twelve years. Everyone should be perfectly happy by now,” I snarked. “Whatever. I’ll call her after work.”

  “Go see her. Or call Dad. Maybe he knows something.”

  I sighed heavily. “Okay. I can’t do this now, though. It’s my last day here and—”

  “Oh. That’s right. I’ll let you go. Love you, lil bro.”

  I shoved my phone into my back pocket then pushed the huge white tarp separating the room from the larger adjoining one. I glanced toward the couple studying a Lichtenstein. They were the only other occupants in the area besides the stony-faced guard standing near the exit leading to the main corridor. I started toward him but stopped in my tracks when Marley entered. She’d probably want to go over the sculpture exhibit, which meant I might as well stay put. I secured the binder to my side and stared into space, pondering my sister’s phone call.

  Our parents were fine. Sure, they had an unconventional friendship for two people who’d ended their marriage years ago, but they both seemed well-adjusted. I suppose I could go home this weekend, I thought distractedly. My gaze drifted back to the couple. They were striking. Tall, good-looking, and…the man looked vaguely familiar, like—

  No way. It couldn’t be. Could it?

  I hadn’t seen Finn in over a year. In fact, I was pretty sure the last time was the morning I crept out of his bed to avoid a repeat of the “you know we’re only friends” chat we’d had the night before. I knew we weren’t destined for forever, but I’d wanted more and I’d gotten the impression that under his polished and sinfully handsome exterior, he’d felt the same. I was wrong. The fashionable blonde draped over his left arm was proof in case I still needed it.

  Finn Gallagher was never mine, I reminded myself as I willed my instant bout of nausea to subside. He was just a guy I screwed around with once upon a time. So, he was gorgeous, sexy as hell, and could make me swoon with his ability to quote dead Irish poets at random moments. He was also an opportunistic asshole who used every trick in his repertoire to get what he wanted. At least that’s what Nick and Eric had said when they’d warned me not to trust Finn. I’d nodded at my best friends then—thinking their concern was sweet but unnecessary. They’d worked on a deal with Finn and had a completely different perspective than I did. But everyone was different at work.

  Finn may have been cutthroat and determined at his day job, but he wasn’t that way with me. He was kind, thoughtful, and…sweet. As crazy as it sounded, the idea he was a kickass, no-bullshit dude at the office but a gentleman after hours was a major turn on. Okay, so they’d actually said he was a scheming bastard with z
ero conscience, but I’d stubbornly refused to believe my friends. I thought I knew what I was doing. I thought our late-night conversations dissecting the social, religious, and political inferences in Waiting for Godot meant something to him too. I mistook the longing in his gaze for something more than a prelude to sex. And when he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off mine when he moved inside me, I could have sworn I’d seen the other side of myself.

  Now I knew I was just a fucking idiot.

  I waved at Marley and gestured that I’d be in the gallery. Then I moved toward the curtain…just as Finn and his date turned to view the painting on the wall next to me. We stared at each other for what felt like a full minute. It was probably three seconds. Three very long seconds. The pretty woman on his arm didn’t notice. But I swore if this was the movie version of my life, this was where they’d insert the plaintive cry of violin strings signaling a dramatic collision of past with present. Or maybe not. Finn wasn’t the love of my life. He was just a guy I used to know.

  “Josh.”

  “Hi. How are you?” Wow. That was extraordinarily mature of me. I sounded so detached and not the least bit bothered by his presence in my workplace. With a woman on his arm, no less.

  “I’m well. I—how are you?”

  His melodic Irish accent was like hearing a song I loved on the radio that I hadn’t heard in ages. “How are you?” sounded like “Au ware ya?” and fuck, if that wasn’t hot. I wanted to ask a million questions to keep him talking.

  “I’m good,” I replied, mortified when my voice cracked. So much for cool and removed.

  “I didn’t know if you still worked here. I was just taking a quick break before I head back to the office and…it’s good to see you.”

  God, this was painful. It might have been easier if he wasn’t so damned good-looking. Finn Gallagher was six foot two with light-brown hair and a muscular, athletic build. His charcoal suit hugged his biceps lovingly. It was hell knowing he was equally godlike under his corporate uniform. The sincerity in his voice was laced with a hint of yearning that might have encouraged me to make a fool of myself if he was alone. But he wasn’t. His lovely companion’s obvious curiosity kept me from saying something I’d surely regret like, “What are you doing tonight?”

  “You too,” I replied automatically before gesturing vaguely to the veiled room behind me. “I better get back to it. Take care.”

  Marley approached then and greeted me with a sly grin. Her mop of ginger curls bounced as she bent her head to thank me when I held the curtain open for her. I turned to follow her but halted when Finn set his hand on my shoulder.

  “You too, Josh.” He smiled kindly before following his companion into the next room.

  I stared after him for a moment, willing my pulse to return to normal. Unexpectedly running into him felt like a shot to the gut, which made no sense. Finn and I were more like fuck buddies who’d chatted about art and literature in the afterglow. Whatever we’d had was improbable at best. We just didn’t go together. He was handsome, wealthy and worldly, while I was average in every possible way. I was six feet tall and lean with brown eyes and wavy brown hair that always needed a cut. I’d picked a profession based on love rather than money, and though I’d traveled a little, I wasn’t anyone’s idea of worldly.

  Melancholy gave way to annoyance. It figured Finn Gallagher would invade my territory with a hot blonde on my last day at a job I loved but couldn’t keep because I was deemed unqualified. Some might even say it was ironic and perhaps a reflection of my quasi-relationship with Finn. Nice enough, but not quite what he’d been looking for. I ran my hand over my stubbled jaw and sighed before pushing back the curtain to join Marley.

  “Who was that?” she asked, patting the space beside her on the bench.

  I wordlessly obeyed and stared up at the giant twisted metal sculpture in front of us. The rigid material curved gracefully, wrapping around itself so that it looked like it was undulating. The juxtaposition of the cold surface and hinted heat of motion was oddly poetic. And it was one of the many reasons I loved art. I couldn’t paint, sculpt, or even take a decent photograph to save my life, but I was in awe of those who could.

  “Just somebody I used to know.”

  “Ohh. Like the Gotye song.” She sang the chorus in a hushed voice and nudged my elbow.

  Marley was a tall woman with striking features, short curly ginger hair, brilliant green eyes, and a snow-white complexion. She often referred to herself as a “big gal,” which didn’t make sense to me. She may have been slightly overweight but frankly, I thought she was hard on herself. She was a pretty woman and she was smart as hell. I told her so often enough that a few of our co-workers thought I had a crush on her.

  “Yeah, something like that. Minus the angst. We weren’t serious,” I assured her with a smile as I leaned back, bracing my weight on my hands.

  Marley mirrored my pose and gave me a sideways glance. “Good ’cause that was a honkin’ ring on the skinny blonde’s finger.”

  “Huh?” I knitted my brow and shifted slightly to face my friend. “Like an engagement ring?”

  “Yep. A doorknocker. Looks like she landed a big catch. How do you know him?”

  “Uh…we met at a party a year and a half ago and—are you sure?” I couldn’t tell if my forehead hurt from frowning or if I had the beginnings of a serious headache.

  “Why would I make that up? Of course I’m sure. Shit. You still have the hots for the hottie, dontcha?” Marley teased. Her twinkling eyes invited me to laugh and move on. She knew as well as I did that while there may have been plenty of fish in the sea, the real struggle was finding one worth keeping.

  “No, but…it was weird seeing him. Whatever. I’ve got more important things to worry about like finding a new job.”

  “I’ve told you what to do a million times.” She waited for my eye roll before continuing, “Talk to Dante Crowder. I bet he can offer you something at one of his galleries while you take a language course. Personally, I think it’s ridiculous that they suddenly must have a French-speaking person on this next project. Are you sure you don’t want to help in the office again?”

  “Positive. And I don’t know Dante—”

  “I don’t either, but he’s coming by to talk to Pam about a new artist he’s been working with. I’ll ask her to put in a good word for you. He’s hot too. Not as hot as that guy”—she paused to motion toward the adjoining room—“but he’s well-connected in the art world. I bet he can help you nail your dream job so you aren’t at the whim of some new director who wants you writing grants one minute and taking tickets the next. You’re bright and young and you know more about art than a lot of pretentious dumb shits who think the ability to read Wikipedia entries in two languages is something special. You might not know French, but you know art.”

  I tugged on one of her ringlets and smiled. “Thanks, Mar.”

  “Don’t thank me. You have a real passion for it. You can’t teach passion. You’ve got to share it with the world, Joshy.”

  “I will. I’ll look into French lessons tomorrow.”

  “And?”

  “And you can ask Pam to put in a word with Dante too,” I said with an eye roll. “In the meantime, let me help you with cataloging or filing until we can hit the bars for happy hour with a clear conscience. What do you say?”

  “You’re on. But we’re not hanging around here. We’re going to the Castro to ogle cute boys dancing on bars. And…I’m introducing you to Raul,” she said in a definitive tone as she stood.

  “Yeah, no. I appreciate the thought, but let’s stick to professional intros only. You have a knack for picking some doozies, Mar.”

  She grimaced slightly and shrugged in a “Hey, I tried” gesture. “I didn’t know Scott was married or that the cute redhead was a closet case. You liked Martin though, right?”

  “Sure, but I met him on my own at the gym.”

  “Oh, yeah. He kinda sucked too, huh?”

  �
��Kinda.”

  “You know what your problem is?”

  I huffed as I stood to join her at the curtain. “No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

  “You go for the unattainable. You’re attracted to people who’ll never reciprocate. Not because you aren’t worthy, but because you think you aren’t. You set yourself up every time. You pick the dudes who can’t deal with their sexuality and always have a girl in the wings. It’s like you’re looking to have your heart crushed.”

  “Shouldn’t we be having this conversation with alcohol? If I’m going to feel bad about myself, I’d like to blame tequila.” I pulled back the drapery and peered into the next room. A couple of students were huddled together taking notes, and an old man was sitting on the bench in the middle. There was no sign of Finn and his possible fiancée.

  “I don’t want you to feel bad. I want you to find your soul mate. Hell, I want the same thing for me. But you won’t find it with a closet case.”

  “He wasn’t a closet ca—are you sure she was wearing a ring?” I asked before I could stop myself.

  “Very sure.”

  God, that was depressing. It shouldn’t have bugged me, but it did. Kind of like my sister’s phone call about Mom and Dad. I shouldn’t worry, but I did. Suddenly, five o’clock couldn’t come soon enough. A bottle of tequila was calling my name somewhere and much like my experience with men, I knew exactly what to expect. A good time followed by a headache, an upset stomach, and a short-term promise to myself to never do it again.

  Here’s the thing…my life temporarily sucked, but I was an eternal optimist. I wasn’t the type to wallow in self-pity. What was the point? Yeah, I had a crappy day. I ran into a man I’d once hoped was “the one” with his fiancée on the same day I was leaving a job I loved. But the guy had never been mine, and there was no rule saying I couldn’t get my position back or possibly something better. On the bright side, my mom assured me she was fine when I called earlier so there was that. It was up to me to remind myself to keep perspective. My lack of employment was my only real issue. The rest was static. Loud static. However, it was nothing a bottle of tequila couldn’t handle.