by Nina Lane
“No, don’t. You’ve done enough for me, Graham. I’ll find a job on my own.”
It might be slinging burgers or cleaning floors, but I’ll find one.
He sighs. “Ah, I hate that this happened to you. I wish there was more I could do to help.”
Tears sting my eyes. “I’ll be fine.”
“I know. You’re too strong to let this mess break you.”
What if it already has?
Before I do start crying, I switch the conversation to Graham and ask about his classes and his family. Talking with him eases some of my frustration, and I end the call with a renewed sense of hope.
Job searching is never easy, whether you’re a high-school student or a corporate shark. And at least I have a place to live and excellent qualifications, so already I’m ahead of the game.
I continue admiring the artwork. Maybe I will write a paper about one of the paintings or artists. As I walk toward a nautical history display, I catch sight of a dark-haired man sitting on a bench beside an antique ship’s wheel.
I stop in my tracks. It’s the man from yesterday, the one whom I’d fantasized about with utter abandon.
A flush rises to my cheeks, and my breath shortens. I can’t move, my attention locking to him like a magnet. His dark head is bent over a notepad, and he’s writing with a pencil, his hand working swiftly across the page. The movement is almost hypnotic, like watching a flock of birds soaring over the sky.
My gaze travels over his arms, past the sleeves of his chambray shirt rolled up to reveal the corded muscles of his forearms. Then down across the faded areas of his jeans, stretched at the knee and hugging his long legs. His scuffed black boots. The breadth of his shoulders and chest, which I’d imagined naked and sweaty—
My mind suddenly fills with a memory of a broad-shouldered man standing behind the smoky glass of the lighthouse tower.
Oh my God. So much for thinking the lighthouse keeper is a grizzled old lobster fisherman.
He glances up. Our gazes meet. With a quick intake of breath, I step back, struck by the sudden sense that he can read my mind. That he knows every detail of my raw fantasy.
Energy crackles between us. My knees weaken as I remember his warm, strong grip on my wrist, his fingers resting against my throbbing pulse.
“That’s just so weird.” A young girl’s chattering voice breaks my attention.
The school group bustles noisily into the room, the tour guide and teacher attempting to rein in their enthusiasm.
A surge of self-preservation jolts me into movement. I hurry to the front of the museum, trying to suppress the attraction still simmering inside me, trying to avoid looking back at the man who gave me an incredible orgasm last night—even if he doesn’t know it.
I stop in the main gallery, where Miriam is talking to Lucy, the woman from the Provencal Art and Antiques shop yesterday who’d clearly discovered the stories about me. My teeth clench. Surely she wouldn’t…
Both women glance at me. Lucy smiles tightly.
Oh, yes, she would.
What the hell? Am I in the middle of some nightmarish Stephen King novel where gossip becomes a living creature slithering through town and striking people down? Is this really how small towns operate? Or was I too hopeful to think I could have a new start here? That the scandal and naked pictures of me wouldn’t have this kind of rippling, caustic effect?
Any pleasure or hope I’d felt vanishes, dissolving like black smoke.
“Don’t tell me,” I say to Miriam. “You’re not hiring anyone at this time.”
A crease appears between her eyebrows. “I’m sorry, but it seems as if there’s a bit of an… issue.”
Well, that’s one way of putting it.
Although I want to say something bitchy—what, I have no idea—I force myself to remain polite.
“All right,” I say. “I appreciate your time.”
Straightening my shoulders, I walk past them and out the front door. The crisp autumn air does nothing to cool my hot face or quell the shame and embarrassment flooding my veins. Again.
I return to my car, throwing my satchel into the passenger seat. I try to push the key into the ignition, but my hand is shaking too hard. I drop the keys onto my lap and grip the steering wheel.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
The curses fire like bullets through my brain.
Goddamn you, David, for being a lying, cheating, manipulative bastard.
Goddamn you, Juliette, for being so brilliant, so judgmental, so terrible.
Goddamn you, cancer, for existing.
Goddamn you, Max, for dying.
Goddamn my colleagues and students, the board of regents, the chancellor, the police, every single person who believed a powerful older man over a junior female professor and who thought her voice was worth nothing.
Goddamn you, Eve, for being such a stupid, trusting wretch.
A sob chokes me. Tears flood my eyes. I rest my forehead on the steering wheel and start to cry. I’d once thought I’d used up all my tears, but no. They spring up from the dark well inside me, running down my cheeks in hot, salty trails.
All the anger and pain that I’ve suppressed boils up into painful, wrenching sobs. I squeeze my eyes shut, trembling and crying for what feels like an eternity. My chest hurts. My throat hurts. My heart hurts.
A knocking sound, knuckles on glass, suddenly filters through my sobbing. I manage to suppress another rising outbreak of tears and lift my head, wiping my face on my sleeve. I stare in blurry shock at the man standing outside my car, right next to the driver’s side window.
The man from the bookstore, the museum, my pornographic vision.
He indicates that I should roll down the window.
What the…?
My defensive instincts kick into gear, overpowering my pain. Orgasmic fantasy or not, this man is a stranger. In LA, I would never roll down the window for anyone except a legitimate police officer.
But this isn’t LA—even if the scandal did follow me here—and it’s mid-morning with plenty of nearby businesses open. Two couples stroll on the other side of the street, and a heavy-set, bald man is leaning against a lamppost, checking his phone.
I roll the window down a crack.
“Yes?” Though I try to keep my voice cool, a hiccuping sob breaks through.
He leans down to peer at me, a crease appearing between his dark eyebrows. God, he has an incredible face—thick-lashed eyes, cut-glass cheekbones sloping down to a strong, whisker-dusted jaw, and a mouth that looks as if it was made to do dirty things to a woman.
I half-expect him to say something like “You okay?” even though it’s abundantly clear that I am anything but okay.
Instead he says, “Eve Perrin.”
Of course he knows my last name. Everyone around here does by now, thanks to the small-town gossip mill that spits out rumors like watermelon seeds.
“That’s me.” I hiccup again and fumble in my satchel for a tissue. “What do you want?”
“I overheard your conversations in the museum.”
Great. I should just wear a microphone and save everyone in this godforsaken town the trouble of eavesdropping. Irritated, I scrounge deeper into my bag. I don’t have a fucking tissue.
The guy pulls a folded handkerchief from his pocket and pushes it through the window crack to me. I grab it and blow my nose. The soft, clean cotton has a pleasant smell of citrus and spice. Not that I care.
“You’re looking for a job,” he says.
Even with his chivalrous handkerchief gesture, I’m no longer interested in being polite. “So what’s it to you?”
“I’ll help you.”
I throw him a wary look. “How?”
He straightens, resting his hands on his hips. The movement draws my eyes unwillingly to the way his shirt stretches across his chest and shoulders. His voice is a deep rumble of temptation.
“Come with me, Eve.”
CHAPTER FIVE
&nb
sp; Come with me, Eve.
Serpent. Garden of Eden. Tree of good and evil.
Come with me, Eve, and eat this delicious fruit. That hadn’t ended well for her. Or humanity.
A long moment passes, broken only by the sound of my occasional hiccuping sob. He just stands there, immovable as a mountain, his booted feet planted apart and the wind rumpling up his thick dark hair.
My intellect tells me to refuse. To toss him the snotty handkerchief, close the window, and drive away without a backward glance. But my intellect has not made the best decisions lately.
I can help you.
What the hell? It’s not as if anyone else can. And sadly, I don’t seem to be able to help myself—at least not where a job is concerned.
“Where are we going?” I finally ask.
He tilts his head toward an old blue pickup parked nearby. “Follow me.”
So he’s not trying to lure me into his truck. That makes the decision easier. I fish my keys out of my lap to start the car. After waiting for him to get to his truck, I ease my car behind him. He drives down Lantern Street and onto the narrow, two-laned road heading out of Castille and east toward the ocean.
Coastal grasslands spread out like blankets on either side, sloping toward the ocean at the cliff’s edge. A small circular parking lot, occupied by three cars, sits a short distance from the plateau. I pull into an empty space and get out of the car.
He climbs out of his truck and approaches me.
I peer up at him. “You’re the lighthouse keeper, aren’t you?”
He nods.
“How long have you lived here?”
“Fifteen years.”
He looks like he’s around thirty-eight, which means he’s been here since his early twenties. Seems to be an odd career choice for a young man.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Flynn.”
“Flynn.” I say his name aloud without thinking. Smooth and velvety, with no rough edges. Melting in my mouth like a hot buttered biscuit.
Without giving me further information, he starts toward the winding pathway. I follow, his handkerchief still crumpled in my fist. Several people hike along the coastal trail, and an older couple stands near the secrets wall, peering out at the ocean through binoculars.
“So you actually live here?” I ask as we pass the nautical display building.
“In the cottage.” He points to the lighthouse at the top of the slope. “The exhibit is open to the public, but the lighthouse and keeper’s cottage are both private. No visitors allowed.”
We ascend the slope to the large, modern addition attached to the back of the cottage. The addition is made of the same stone material as the cottage, so it melds very well with the original structure.
He unlocks the door and pushes it open, moving aside to let me precede him. Though his chivalry softens me a little, I don’t immediately step forward. Aside from developing a guard as thick as leather over the months, my basic survival instinct warns me not to enter a closed room with a man I don’t know.
He extends the keyring to me in a silent offering.
I take it, unable to prevent a hollow laugh. “This is supposed to reassure me?”
“Get your phone out,” he says. “The signal should be fine up here. Go ahead and call someone you know, tell them where you are.”
Who would I even call? I take my phone out of my bag anyway and step into the room.
Boxes and crates fill the large space, which is lined with wooden shelves. An old desk and a straight-backed chair sit near a window overlooking the plateau and the woods farther inland. Another leather chair and a sofa are positioned against the opposite wall.
There’s no other furniture, just dozens of cardboard boxes, wooden crates, storage containers that look as if they contain file folders. Stacks of archival boxes sit near the desk, and a drop cloth covers a vertical shelving unit on the opposite wall.
Okay. It’s a storage room, not a creeper’s dungeon.
I don’t move past my one-foot entry into the room. A strange familiarity hovers in the air, as if I’ve been here before. Which I definitely haven’t.
“And?” I ask.
“Open one of the boxes.” He points toward them.
“Which one?”
He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”
I take a few cautious steps into the room and turn to a nearby box. A few numbers are scrawled in black pen on the side. I tug at the flaps and open the box to reveal a stack of old books.
I lift out the first one, an old, thick cloth-bound hardcover imprinted with a gold floral motif around the title. At the top of the design, a winged fairy hovers over a crescent moon.
I stare at the cover. I can’t move, but my heart is suddenly racing.
The Fairy Tales of the Countess d’Aulnoy. Translated by J.R. Planche.
A thousand emotions bubble up inside me with the power of a storm. I grip the book tighter and force myself to look at Flynn. He’s still standing in the doorway, his arms crossed and his expression shuttered.
“This…” My mouth goes dry. “My uncle owned this book.”
He nods. I take out more books. My hands are shaking. Norse Fairy Tales by G.W. Dasent. Edmund Dulac’s Fairy Book. The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood.
Uncle Max’s beloved personal collection. The one my mother had sold through an auction. The one I’d thought was gone forever.
Love and grief well up inside me, tightening my throat. I turn away, painfully aware of Flynn watching me and not wanting him to witness yet another breakdown.
“How…” My breath catches. “How did you get all of this?”
“Sotheby’s New York.”
“You were the anonymous bidder.” I turn back to him, a fresh wave of shock hitting me. “Wait a minute. Do you know I’m related to Max Dearborne?”
He inclines his head. “You’re his niece.”
“How did you know?”
“That’s why I asked your name outside the bookstore.” He uncrosses his arms and approaches me. “Max spoke of you often. Last I heard you were an undergrad art history major at Stanford.”
Something fragile breaks open inside me, splintering my heart with hope, fear, curiosity, anticipation. “You knew him. How?”
“We were friends.” A hint of warmth enters his voice, contrasting his impassivity. “But he took another job and moved to San Francisco about a year after I came to Castille. He said he wanted to be closer to you.”
Tears fill my eyes again, but this time from happiness rather than anger. “I can’t believe it. His colleagues from Ford’s literature department all retired or moved, so I didn’t think there was anyone still in Castille who knew him. Were you his student?”
“No.” He pushes away from the doorjamb and approaches a stack of boxes. “I didn’t know until the auction how extensive your uncle’s collection had become.”
Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I gaze down at the Dulac fairy tale book. “He spent his life building this collection. He’d always intended for it to be used by anyone who was interested in fairy tales. He let students and professors into his house in San Francisco all the time to research, talk, or just read. One woman even did the bulk of her PhD research using the books in his library.”
“How did it end up at Sotheby’s?”
Oh, Uncle Max. Wonderful, brilliant, disorganized Uncle Max who could read Grimm’s fairy tales in the original German, but who didn’t know a legal document from an appliance manual.
“My mother sold it.” Old guilt claws through me. “Max had always wanted the collection to end up in a museum or library, but he didn’t make specific donation plans. He spent most of his time immersed in books and research, kind of living in another world.
“Aside from a basic will, he’d never had much legal paperwork drawn up. So after he died, my mother inherited most of his stuff and could do whatever she wanted with it. When Sotheby’s said the collection was valuable enough to sell, my mot
her didn’t hesitate to auction it off.”
But my uncle’s entire life’s work had ended up back in Castille, purchased by a man who’d once been friends with him. If the collection had to be sold at all, surely it couldn’t have met a better fate than this.
“Why did you buy it?” I ask.
Flynn doesn’t respond. He turns to face me, a sudden remoteness infusing his eyes. “I asked you here because I heard you need a job. You’re having trouble finding one.”
Okay, he’s not going to answer my question.
My face heats. He must know what everyone else does about me. But discovering that he and Max were friends, that he bought Max’s entire collection, worsens my embarrassment, as if my salacious story has stained something pure.
“That’s true,” I admit.
“And as impressive as this collection is, it’s something of a mess.”
I can’t help chuckling. “My uncle had many wonderful qualities, but an efficient, systematic approach to life was not one of them. His collection has always been a haphazard mess. He said he’d never be able to find anything if it were organized.”
Max’s gruff voice echoes in my head. “Evie, I can find anything I need in thirty seconds or less!”
A rush of tender fondness fills me. For years Max had divided his time between Castille and San Francisco, and part of his collection was stored in his old San Francisco Victorian house. I’d loved visiting him in his cluttered library when I was a child—books piled on every available surface, paintings amassed on the walls, shelves stuffed with manuscripts, lithographs, bundles of old letters. It had been a treasure trove, albeit a chaotic one.
“That’s the job,” Flynn says. “I’ll hire you to organize and catalog the entire collection.”
I stare at him. “Are you serious?”
His mouth twitches. “Well, I’m not funny.”
“But why…” My voice trails off in disbelief.
“Look.” Flynn straightens, his arms coming up to cross his broad chest again. “The collection is a mess. I don’t have the time or the expertise to catalog it. You appear to have both, and you need a job. That’s my offer. Do you want it or not?”