Caught Up in You

by Kim Boykin

  She wasn’t exactly his new muse, but she wasn’t bad for someone sitting for the first time. He settled into his rhythm, dabbing his brush onto the palate, glancing up at his subject, and Shelby, who’d seemed to have relaxed a little. She was sitting in an overstuffed chair, legs tucked underneath her. Her predatory look almost gone as she watched him work.

  He hadn’t really known her, until his senior year in college. It was kind of reassuring to see she hadn’t changed much. What you saw with Shelby Worthington was exactly what you got, and what he’d seen downstairs, was a gorgeous, fierce, protective woman, no mask, just emotion laid bare. He’d always liked that about her and remembered a time when he’d been that way too. But scratching and clawing to make a name for himself had changed him, made him put up walls that only came down when he worked. And for the first time since he left New York, working felt good. Really good. The Shelby he remembered didn’t do walls.

  Funny how she thought he’d come back to conquer all the belles in Magnolia Bay. But he’d come back for his father.

  If anyone had asked him when he left home so long ago if he’d have done that for the old man, he would have told them they were crazy. But here he was, living in a sprawling house on the bay, looking in on the old man, making sure he took his meds. He’d asked his dad to come live with him, even though he knew Will Enright had rather be carved up for fish bait than live in a bayside mansion. His dad knew better than to ask Declan to move in with him. Of course Hell would have to freeze over a half dozen times for that to happen. His dad didn’t like him, not even a little bit. And, for Declan, there were so many bad memories in that house, it was suffocating just to walk through the door.

  He’d told Shelby he’d picked the Renault place because of the light, and that was true. But part of him had leased the place because he knew every time his dad brought his boat back into the marina, he would have to look at the mansion that sat across from his slip and see that he’d been wrong about Declan. He had made it, and he’d made it big.

  The old man wouldn’t say what he thought of Declan’s success. But he’d had plenty to say before Declan moved to New York. Get a real job. You’ll never have a pot to pee in. And those were the nice things.

  “Declan?” Chelsea, hissed.

  “Sorry. What?”

  “Geez, Declan. I said I have to pee. Like sixteen times.”

  “Oh, sorry. Down the hall,” he said, pointing.

  Chelsea scooted out the door. Was this his new muse? He looked at his canvas, satisfied with the bones of the portrait. Maybe she was. He put his brush down and dug his fist into his lower back and stretched. When he looked at Shelby, she blushed and looked away with the thinnest smile on her face. Okay, that was kind of hot, her watching him without her little sister around.

  “Can I get you something?” He opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water for himself. “I have juice and water. Beer.” And the predator is back. “Later. For me at the end of the day,” he said, laughing. “You can trust me with your sister, Shelby.”

  She blushed and looked down at the wet spot on her t-shirt. “I’ll have another water.”

  And why did that feel like a small victory? He wasn’t looking to start something with any woman. He had learned his lesson with Elizabeth and was done with relationships. Besides, he had his hands full with his dad and his work. The only way he’d appeased his biggest client before he left New York was to promise them some new pieces, something different. They’d seen some of his earlier portrait work and liked them; they were edgy, expressive.

  He watched Shelby turn the water up, the movement of her throat, the smile when a little drop slid down her chin. She laughed when he wiped it away with his thumb. “I’m a mess,” she said. Yeah, a hot, beautiful mess. “Can I see?” she said, motioning toward the canvas.

  It had always irked him to have someone standing over his shoulder in college and then in the early days when he’d sketched portraits in Central Park to make his rent. He’d learned the hard way what the words starving artist meant. Not that he’d actually starved, but he’d gone without meals a time or two to buy art supplies, and then eaten like a king when a tourist gave him a big tip. Back then his charcoal drawings had gone for $25, now his paintings started at $25,000. It still irked him for someone to see his work in progress, but here he was shrugging and stepping aside, actually wanting her to see.

  “It’s just the beginning of the painting. My portrait style—.” It had been so long since he’d painted anything other than landscapes and a few abstracts, he wasn’t even sure he had a style until he had settled in and started painting Chelsea. “Is kind of a cross between realism and the abstract.”

  “I see the realism, but that doesn’t look like Chelsea. And I don’t see the abstract.”

  He wanted to laugh. A lot of people faked what they did or didn’t see in a painting. Most didn’t understand what they were looking at in the first place. Sometimes, he’d had to work hard to not laugh his ass off when some rich gallery patron started spouting some bullshit about what a painting meant to Declan when he’d created it. Like they knew. But not Shelby.

  “It will and then it won’t. In a sitting or two you’ll see the realism, then I’ll layer in the shadows, soft yellows, greens, soft grays, and maybe some pale blues.” To capture Chelsea’s sadness. “It will look a little more abstract then, but not completely.”

  “Do you always know where the painting is going?”

  “I have no idea. It’s like a story that unravels as I paint. It’s one of the things I love most about the process.”

  “Thank you, Jesus,” Chelsea said, the silk tulle rustling as she retook her place on the chaise. “Can I have one of those?”

  Declan nodded and grabbed another water.

  “She’ll just have to pee again,” Shelby teased. “Her bladder is the size of a walnut. Whenever we went on family car trips—.”

  “Okay. You can leave now.” Chelsea cracked open her water with a warning look. “I mean it. I only have two more hours here and it’s obvious this guy is a serious artist and not an ax murderer, so go.”

  “All right, you don’t have to get nasty.” Shelby laughed, grabbing her purse, she started for the door. She was leaving. No big deal. But why did it feel like it was?

  Chapter Five

  Before Slick Chicks opened, Shelby had to run by the Piggly Wiggly for groceries; it was either that or starve. Chelsea had pretty much eaten her out of house and home, not that Shelby had that much food in the pantry to begin with. But Worthington girls were definitely stress eaters, and, despite the reason for Chelsea’s visit, it was kind of fun having her around. Although Bella was becoming jealous.

  At first Bella cozied right up to Chelsea for attention, but at some point in the past couple of days, Bella had decided it was time for Chelsea to go. She’d pooped in Chelsea’s tennis shoes, peed on her favorite pair of jeans she’d left on the floor beside the bed, and when that didn’t work, Bella started bringing in dead animals and putting them on Chelsea’s bed.

  Usually, when a cat does that, it means I love you, I killed this poor defenseless animal in your honor, and here it is, but not for Bella. She deposited the carcass like it was a horse’s head and then sat on the cushy bedside chair until Chelsea found the body and started screaming. Now, Bella was really pissed; she was being punished, made to be an outside cat until Chelsea moved out or Bella could behave herself. Fat chance of that happening.

  “Bella. Come on, you need to eat and Mommy has to go to work.” Strange. Shelby rarely ever had to call her for mealtime. She’d missed breakfast and Shelby wouldn’t be home until after seven tonight. She called her several more times, looked around the yard. There was the stubborn cat, sitting in the mimosa tree, tail switching. “How many birds have you eaten today, young lady? Don’t answer that. Just let me know when you’re hungry again.”

  She pulled into the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly. Damn. She’d forgotten the li
st she’d taped to the refrigerator, but this should be easy. With Chelsea still on the Reverse Breakup Diet, Shelby needed everything.

  She paused in the front of the Pig’s produce section, coveting the bing cherries that were beautiful and too expensive to touch. As good as they looked, she ran her hand over the sweets, ignored temptation, and tossed the usual suspects into the cart. Kale, spring onions, avocados, and a bag of those miniature sweet peppers Chelsea ate like chocolate, when she wasn’t eating chocolate. Seven dollars for peppers? Good grief, if Chelsea wanted to be kept in the peppers she’d become accustomed to, she was going to have to start pulling her weight, do something other than read, hang out with Stacia, and pose for Declan.

  Splurging on a couple of huge, beautiful Johns Island tomatoes, she picked up one of those very long, expensive burpless cucumbers Chelsea loved so well and was thoughtfully debating her purchase. An overstuffed bag of cherries plopped into her cart. She wheeled around to see Declan eyeing exotic mushrooms that cost a fortune. And her.

  “Declan. What are you doing here?” Her voice sounded like he’d caught her mooning over his picture in her high school yearbook. But she wasn’t a kid anymore, as evidenced by her lady parts tingling like crazy for the runaway groom. He hugged her hello and smelled so delicious, she was weakened considerably. Oh, God, was he wearing Bond No. 9 cologne? Bleecker Street? Total kryptonite. Yes, this was bad. Very bad.

  “Shopping.” He was wearing board shorts and a t-shirt that stretched across his well-muscled chest. And a smirk that said he had loved surprising her. He pushed his shades on top of his head. Killer brown eyes trained on her as he tossed a carton of the high dollar mushrooms into the cart. “For dinner.”

  Oh, boy. Surely he didn’t expect her to pay for all this. If he did, he was really going to have to start paying Chelsea more, and she was going to have to fork over some of that money to Shelby.

  “They have plenty of carts.” She nodded toward the front of the store.

  “I like yours,” he said.

  She pushed the cart to the relatively cheap and safe bread section. He put a $9.00 loaf of artisan rosemary focaccia in the cart and perused the Chocolate Heaven section of the bakery before selecting the Godiva double chocolate layer cake that would definitely break the bank.

  Okay, he was trying to get a rise out of her. She wouldn’t give him that. She stopped the cart and separated the items into his and hers, put a cheap loaf of wheat bread into the cart and continued on like he wasn’t there. She glanced at her watch; she needed to get out of there if she was going to take the groceries home and open the store by ten. And she’d probably be done if she weren’t thoroughly distracted.

  “Have somewhere to be?” No fair. Just his voice did things to her. He was with her step for step. Fine. If he wanted to follow her around like a puppy, so be it. She whizzed around the aisles trying to remember that stupid list. She knew better than to go home without Bella’s cat food. Declan was still walking beside her like they shopped together all the time.

  He threw two beautiful fillets in the cart before she pushed down the aisle looking for the cheapie brand paper towels she always bought. All this man and his hotness had done was turn what was supposed to be a fifteen-minute dash into the Piggly Wiggly into a stroll down Memory Lane for her body. She couldn’t go back to being that lovesick freshman. No way. She was fifteen years older. And way wiser. Right?

  “I could help you with your shopping,” he offered.

  Yeah, she’d put a stop to this with a little trip to No Man’s Land. She stopped the cart in front of every brand imaginable of pads and tampons. “Thanks, Declan. Could you please get me a box of Tampax?”

  But instead of running for the exit, he picked up a purplish pink box. “Radiant?” And then two blue ones and proceeded to juggle them. Damn him and that smirk. “Pearl? Active maybe?”

  Grrr. She snatched the Radiant box out of midair and tossed it on her side of the cart. “That was my guess,” he said, laughing.

  She narrowed her eyes and chucking the other two boxes in. There, she’d show him. “Anything else I can get you?” he asked.

  “No,” she snapped nearly careening the cart into the checkout counter. “Thank you.”

  She was throwing her items onto the belt when he started to help her. He put all three boxes of Tampax on the belt. “You trying to scare me off, Shelby?”

  “No,” she sputtered, hating the way her heart beat faster when they both reached for the tomatoes at the same time.

  “You making sandwiches with those Johns Island tomatoes?” He had to know exactly what he did to her because he sure seemed to enjoy seeing her so flustered over produce. And him.

  “Yes.” Head down. Just pay for the stuff and get the hell out of there before your resolve wears off.

  “You inviting me over?” His patented smile that had conquered most every belle in Magnolia Bay, and probably most of the four million women in New York City.

  “No.” There, she didn’t sound terse; she sounded like a grownup. A businesswoman. She eyed those damn fillets and the expensive bottle of red wine. He hadn’t asked her to dinner, but his side of the basket held all the fixings for a very romantic one. Was he going to ask her? After him trailing her in the grocery, smelling so delicious, would she have the willpower to say no? “I have work.”

  “And after work?” He had the tiniest creases around his eyes from using that aphrodisiac of a smile on womankind. Was he asking her out?

  Her heart was beating ninety miles an hour. She wanted to kick herself for admitting that she was dying for him to ask her to join him and his fillets. His fancy wine. “I have things to do.” And a very needy cat.

  The next morning Declan called for the third time, hoping his dad would pick up. He looked at his watch again, and was beginning to worry. Sure Declan had gotten to the docks a little late, but it was well after 7:00 am and his dad was nowhere to be seen. He walked back toward the marina’ store and took one last look over his shoulder before he pushed through the door.

  The place was like an old-fashioned general store half full of useful things and the other half-filled with all kinds of Lowcountry knickknacks for the tourists. Tanner Mauldin was in the process of selling a tourist a flashy, expensive fishing rod and nodded at Declan like he didn’t want to be interrupted. The man looked at the price tag and seemed to cool on the idea and then wandered over to the sale barrel of fishing paraphernalia.

  “Morning, Declan. How’s it going?”

  “Good, Tanner. At least I hope so. I’m getting a little worried; I’ve tried to call my dad, and the boat’s still here. Thought I’d check in with you to see if you’ve seen him this morning. He’s usually here by now.”

  “I got here before six. Had a few anglers come into the store, but I haven’t seen hide nor hair of your dad. Sorry.”

  “Thanks, Tanner.”

  “Sure,” he said, and then jerked his chin toward the dock. “Oh, there he is.”

  Declan whirled around to see his dad taking in the lines. “Thanks. Gotta run.” He took off out the door, plowing into two men headed up the steps to the store. “Excuse me,” he barked and skipped the last three steps. He was flying down the dock, and stopped short at the end of the pier. The boat was a good twenty feet away and chugging toward the horizon. Declan wouldn’t embarrass himself by jumping in and swimming for the boat; he knew from experience the old man would just gun the engine toward the mouth of the bay.

  Fine. The old man wanted to risk life and limb, going out on his own. It was no skin off of Declan’s nose.

  He went home, took a shower and dressed. He sat in the living room that overlooked the bay and drank his coffee, wishing the pretty antique telescope were powerful enough to see his dad’s boat. What if the old man fell again? Broke the other hip? What if he died out there? No doubt, Declan could have borrowed a boat from Tanner and went after him, but there was something demeaning about going after his dad. And what would he do once
he caught up with him? The old man had made it clear on numerous occasions he wanted nothing to do with Declan.

  But the last few outings, he’d seemed a little less gruff. Not welcoming, but still, Declan had thought they were making progress.

  Two hours later, Declan was crazy with worry. What if his dad wasn’t coming back? Ever? He decided to call the police, but before he could grab his phone, the doorbell rang. He tore his glance from the bay and went to the door. Chelsea.

  “Morning, Declan.” She headed straight for the kitchen for coffee.

  He followed her, nabbing his phone from the counter. “I don’t think we’ll be working today.”

  “Bummer. I need the money. Shelby’s been all over me about contributing lately. I may have to find something that pays better.”

  “I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to take care of something.” At this point, even if she was Shelby’s sister, he didn’t care whether she sat for him or not. He punched 911 into his phone. “My dad’s missing.” Just as he said the words, he saw a shrimp boat chugging toward the harbor. “Sorry,” he said to the person. “I thought my dad was missing, but I see his boat now.” He ended the call.

  “Be right back,” he said to Chelsea and bolted out the door.

  He ran the short distance up Bayshore Boulevard to the marina. Knowing his dad would be combative if he sprinted to the boat, Declan slowed and reached the slip just as the boat came to a stop. He tried to keep his face impassive, although the tiny pulse on the side of his forehead throbbed angrily. He tied off the boat and stood with his fists clinched at his sides, looking at his father who was ignoring him.

  The old man slipped the boat keys in his pocket. Declan wanted to take them. Ground him, essentially. Congratulations, Declan Enright; you are now the parent of a seventy-five-year-old angry teenager. Finally the old man glared at Declan. There was a cut on his forehead, almost in the exact same spot where the pulse in Declan’s forehead was still pumping. The old man’s limp was more pronounced. Had he fallen?