“Tell me what happened,” Dylan told Sam.
“Nothing.”
“I wouldn’t call defacing school property nothing,” Tim said tightly.
“Defacing in what way?” Dylan asked the principal.
“Our security system caught it on camera. Instead of going to class, Sam chose to spend fifth period spray-painting school property.”
“The stupid, ugly modular classroom.” Sam shook his head. “It’s not even a big deal.”
“Vandalism,” the principal said. “Skipping class is a big deal. I’m certain your...” He cleared his throat. “I’m certain Mr. Scott agrees.”
Dylan pressed his lips together. In theory he agreed with the principal, but the truth was he’d done much worse during his time in high school. Still, he couldn’t let Sam start off in this way.
“What’s the punishment?” he demanded, figuring it was easiest to cut to the chase.
Tim Johnson raised a brow. “Do you think we should talk about why this happened?”
“Math is boring,” Sam grumbled. “The modular is ugly. Everyone thinks it looks way better now.”
“That isn’t the point,” Tim said, shaking his head.
It surprised Dylan that the principal didn’t argue. He hadn’t checked out the building where the graffiti had taken place when he’d arrived, and now he regretted that decision.
“I think more than worrying about why it happened,” Dylan told the principal, “the major concern should be ensuring it doesn’t happen again. Which it won’t.”
“My recommendation is a one-day school suspension,” Tim said with a nod. “That will take us into the Thanksgiving holiday.”
“What holiday?” Dylan asked, panic grazing along his spine.
“The school district is closed Wednesday, Thursday and Friday due to the holiday.” The principal looked at him like he was a total idiot.
“Right,” he agreed. “I forgot about Thanksgiving.”
“Because you always came to our house.” Sam suddenly turned to him, his tone filled with accusation. “You never had to remember it because my mom took care of everything.”
“It’s not like I forgot the holiday,” Dylan protested, the words sounding weak even to his own ears. “I’ve been busy, Sam. I just didn’t remember that it was this week.” He massaged a hand over the back of his neck. “Or that you’d be off school.”
“Stuck with me, again.”
Dylan blew out a long breath. “We can discuss Thanksgiving plans and whether you want pecan or pumpkin pie later. Right now we’re talking about you vandalizing the school.” He looked at the principal. “Do you have photos so I can see the damage? Sam will take care of cleanup and any costs involved.”
Tim nodded, flipping open the laptop that sat on his desk and turning it so the screen faced Dylan.
“As far as the suspension goes, we do have another option,” the principal offered, almost reluctantly.
Instead of hearing him out, Dylan held up a hand, unable to focus on anything but the images on the screen.
“How long is a class period?” he whispered.
When Sam didn’t answer, the principal cleared his throat. “Forty minutes.”
Dylan felt his mouth drop open and quickly shut it again. “You did this in less than an hour?” he demanded of Sam, who gave a tight nod.
“It’s just some spray paint,” the boy mumbled. “I don’t know why everyone is making such a big deal about it. I can paint over it with no problem.”
“Young man, this is a big deal as you call it because you vandalized district property and disrupted the school day for everyone involved.”
“This isn’t graffiti.” Dylan used the arrow key to scroll through the close-ups of what Sam had done. “It’s art.”
He wasn’t simply saying it to get Sam out of trouble. Dylan had expected foul words or inappropriate scribbles, the kind of stuff he and his friends would have done for a stupid prank as teens. Sam had drawn—or sprayed—a boy standing on the top of a jagged mountain. It was a black-and-white design, simple in some ways, but the emotion of the piece practically took his breath away.
“You’re talented,” he told Sam. “Why didn’t I ever hear about this from your dad?”
The boy seemed to sink lower in the chair. “He wanted me to focus on real classes and playing hockey. Dad didn’t care that I wanted to draw. He said art was for pansies.”
Dylan sighed. That sounded like something his cousin would have told his son. Wiley was a great guy and a loving father, but he was old-school in a lot of his thinking. Boys played sports and learned to hunt and work on old cars. He and Kay had a traditional marriage, with him as the breadwinner and head of the household.
It had worked for them, and they seemed happy, so Dylan hadn’t even thought to question it.
“You didn’t enroll in any art classes here.”
Sam shrugged. “It would have pissed him off.”
Hell. The boy was trying to please his father even now. In one instant, the situation turned more complicated than Dylan could have guessed it might. And it was a mess of monumental proportions in the first place.
He wanted to argue, to tell Sam to follow his bliss or give some kind of insightful advice, but he had no idea what to say. Why couldn’t this moment be like something out of a coming-of-age movie where the adults offered sound-bite words of wisdom? Where was Mr. Miyagi when a guy needed him?
“You said there was another option.” Dylan looked helplessly at the principal, grasping for anything to turn things around.
He sat forward in his chair as Tim Johnson nodded. “One of our extracurricular art club instructors is looking for volunteers to help with a project. It would be after school and Sam needs to interview with her then log his hours and have her sign off on his work and attitude. I texted her photos of what he did here...” The man laughed softly. “She’s interested in speaking to him. If he agrees to this, it would be an alternative to the infraction going on his permanent record.”
“He’ll take it,” Dylan said.
Sam let out a snort of disbelief. “I’m not volunteering. Just punish me and have it over. Kick me out if you want. I don’t care.”
“You do.” Dylan stood and paced to the edge of the office then back again, frustration pounding through him. “You’re running out of options, buddy. I don’t know what we’re going to do if you get expelled from another school.”
“Don’t worry about it,” the boy muttered. “I’ll figure things out.”
Who was this kid trying to fool? Half the time he could barely remember to brush his teeth.
“The suspension will be enforced either way,” the principal told Dylan, his tone bordering on sympathetic. He pushed a slip of paper across the top of his desk. “Consider the option and let me know by the start of Thanksgiving break. Here’s Ms. Reed’s number if you want to call her and talk about where she needs help.”
Ms. Reed? With numb fingers, Dylan picked up the paper and read the name and phone number scrawled there. Blood roared through his head. The woman who could get Sam out of hot water if she took him on was the woman who had every reason to want Dylan out of town.
Just when life couldn’t get any more complicated, it did.
CHAPTER SEVEN
LATE THURSDAY MORNING, Thanksgiving Day, Dylan stalked toward The Reed Gallery. A pale sun shone down on him from a cloudless sky, but the mild weather did little to curb his mood.
He’d actually woken feeling hopeful, a rare occasion of late. The house had been quiet and because of the holiday his phone and email had been, as well.
He and Sam had gone to the grocery the previous day and bought a random assortment of food to make their Thanksgiving feast. Despite his company’s financial backing of several trendy restaurants around Boston, Dylan couldn’t cook worth a dam
n. But instant potatoes weren’t exactly high on the culinary challenge scale.
When Sam hadn’t made an appearance by ten, he’d started to get concerned. Much to the teen’s irritation, Dylan had implemented a policy of electronic devices charging in the kitchen. If not for that, Sam probably would have spent all his time behind a closed bedroom door.
But the kid always came down as soon as he woke to check in on social media. The constant worry over monitoring Sam’s online activities and the negotiations around screen time made Dylan feel old. And like a real parent, which terrified both him and Sam.
He’d checked the charging station in the corner of the counter and realized Sam’s phone was missing, which had sent him rushing up the stairs to bang on the kid’s door.
Sam hadn’t answered and when Dylan finally opened the door, he found the room empty. Panic had pounded through him. He didn’t think the boy would run away, but it was an ever-present fear in the back of Dylan’s mind given how often he’d considered the option when he’d been a teenager.
When he checked the app that tracked the location of Sam’s phone, he’d been shocked to see it show up at Niall Reed’s gallery downtown. Sam hadn’t seemed the least bit interested in a community service project and despite what he’d told the principal, Dylan hadn’t pushed the idea. He could handle working with Carrie on the silly winter festival. He figured it would be a way to showcase how his larger vision for the town would benefit everyone more than relying on small-scale tourism events.
Sam made Dylan vulnerable, and he had no intention of showing that side of himself to Carrie. Hell, he hated to admit he even had a vulnerable side.
But now he approached the local landmark with a strange mix of anticipation and dread. Although much of downtown Magnolia remained the same from when he was a kid, Carrie and her sisters had transformed the gallery from a tacky shrine celebrating Niall’s ego to a warm and welcoming studio, complete with bright colors, plush rugs and lots of crafty-looking signs with quotes about following your bliss and being grateful for a variety of things, including coffee and wine o’clock. Whatever that was.
He still couldn’t understand why she was wasting her time teaching frivolous sip-and-paint classes in the evening or working at the high school instead of focusing on her art.
He’d bought most of her paintings when he’d come to Magnolia in the fall and seen them through the window of the gallery. He’d recognized the work she’d done during their time together a decade ago. He hadn’t been able to resist them, but he’d made sure to have his assistant arrange payment so that Carrie hadn’t realized he was the buyer until he’d shown up at her show.
Was she making new art now?
Although the rest of the block appeared dark with the stores closed for Thanksgiving, the gallery windows glowed warmly with light.
Both Sam and Carrie looked up from the drafting table where they sat next to each other as he stormed in. Neither spoke as they stared at him. How was it that he once again felt like the outsider?
“You scared the crap out of me,” he told the boy. “What the hell were you thinking leaving without telling me?”
The boy rolled his eyes like he had a master’s degree in the gesture. “You were in the shower, so I wasn’t going to risk seeing your saggy butt. I like my corneas just how they are, man.”
That earned a burst of laughter from Carrie, but what irritated Dylan was the way his heart seemed to loosen and sigh in response, even though she was laughing at him.
“You could have left a note.” He crossed his arms over his chest and did his best to look intimidating. He also tried his best not to worry whether his butt was actually sagging. Of course it wasn’t true. Dylan was in the best shape of his life and knew the kid teased him just to get a reaction. “Or texted me.”
Sam shrugged. “I thought I’d be back before you noticed I was gone.”
“You weren’t,” Dylan said through clenched teeth.
“Please don’t be angry.” Carrie pushed back from the table and stood, tucking a long strand of hair behind one ear, and Dylan’s nerve endings buzzed with awareness.
His reaction to her made him feel ridiculous. She wore a chunky sweater and faded jeans with a rip over the knee. The sliver of skin that showed was enough to make his mouth water. “Principal Johnson told me he didn’t think Sam was interested in volunteering for Merry Magnolia. When he texted this morning I asked if he could meet me here right away. He’s got so much talent.”
“For trouble,” Dylan muttered, earning another eye roll. He took a step forward. “We’d agreed you weren’t going to get involved.”
“Why do you care?” Sam demanded. “You were so upset that I got busted so what’s your problem with me doing this?” The boy’s face flushed. “You probably think the same way my dad did. That art is for pansies.”
“Art isn’t for pansies,” Carrie said, sounding both shocked and affronted as she leveled a glare at Dylan.
“I never said that,” he explained.
“But you believe it,” Sam accused him.
“Not true.”
“Then why discourage him from helping me?” Carrie shook her head. “He has some great ideas for backdrops and with his talent...” She broke off, mouth dropping open in shock. “That’s the reason. You don’t want the festival to be a success.”
Dylan squeezed shut his eyes for a moment, wondering how every interaction he had with this woman spun out of control so quickly.
“Cold, man.” Sam faked a shiver. “Dad always said ice ran through your veins when you were making a deal, but that’s arctic levels of frozen.”
It was more complicated than either of them knew, but how could he explain it without sounding like an ass?
“I don’t have a personal stake in whether or not your fake cheer is successful in conveying the right amount of frivolous support for Magnolia as a tourist destination. But I still maintain that a Podunk town known for kitschy holiday decorations and folksy charm isn’t what we want to be known for.”
Carrie gaped at him. “My ideas aren’t kitschy. They’re homey and festive.”
“Also unnecessary. I want Magnolia to become for this region of the Carolinas what Aspen or Park City are to the mountains. A premier destination for vacationers with deep pockets, people looking to get away from the rigors and stress of daily life to unwind at the soothing beach for the holidays.”
“That sounds boring AF,” Sam muttered.
Before Dylan could reprimand him, Carrie pointed a finger in the boy’s direction. “Watch your mouth, young man. My sister can get away with talking like a sailor, but she’s the only one.”
Sam’s gaze swung from Carrie to Dylan, who grinned at him. “Yeah, young man,” Dylan agreed. “What she said.”
“What I say—” Carrie stepped around the table and toward Dylan “—is stop trying to turn this town into some generic, yuppie playground.”
“I don’t think yuppies are a thing anymore,” Dylan told her, captivated by the spark in her eyes.
“Do you mean guppies?” Sam asked. “Like the fish?”
The finger that had just put the teen in his place poked at Dylan’s chest. “You know exactly what I mean. Magnolia isn’t Aspen or Park City or any other trendy enclave for the rich and entitled.”
“Why not?” Dylan wrapped his hand around her finger, marveling at the softness of her skin.
She drew back like he’d scalded her. “Because that’s not who we are. We’re a real town filled with real people.”
“Who could use a real influx of revenue,” Dylan countered.
“We’re getting there.”
Dylan leaned in closer. “I could get you there faster.”
He hadn’t meant the words to sound suggestive. Not with the way they couldn’t seem to agree on anything and the fact that Sam was sitting a few feet
behind Carrie.
But she sucked in a shallow breath and her pupils dilated, causing his body to race into overdrive. Yes, he could get her there. Fast, slow...however she liked it.
In fact, the urge to find out what turned her on now and if she’d changed from when he knew her had consumed his thoughts more often than he’d care to admit since returning to Magnolia.
“Let him volunteer for me,” she said softly, pink tongue darting out to wet her lips.
Dylan’s limbs felt heavy with need, and he completely lost the thread of the conversation.
“I think it will help him adjust.”
Adjust.
He shook his head. Damn it. She was talking about Sam, and Dylan was caught up in a daydream of his own lascivious imagination.
“Your plans don’t align with what I want to do in town,” he said, trying to keep his emotions out of the conversation. Hard to do when everything involving this town and this woman made him feel things he hadn’t in years.
Her gorgeous mouth turned down at the corners. “You’re wrong.”
“I’m never wrong.”
“Dylan,” she whispered, and his name on her lips took him back to another time and place. “Please.”
And didn’t that just about slay him?
“What do you expect from me, Carrie?”
“You committed to working on the holiday festival with me,” she reminded him gently.
“So I could prove what a stupid idea it was.”
“Always offering up the positivity,” Sam called out sarcastically. “Gonna give Tony Robbins a run for his money.”
Dylan blew out a laugh. He’d given the boy a book by the famed life coach but never dreamed the kid would read it. The fact that he had made Dylan’s heart clench.
“Just give it a chance,” Carrie urged. “You’ll see how amazing Magnolia can be without all your plans for changing it.”
“The festival plan is actually kind of cool,” Sam added.
As much as Dylan wanted to say no, he couldn’t deny either of them. This silly holiday event was the first thing other than his phone or video games that Sam had shown interest in since Dylan became his guardian.
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