The Grumpy Landlord, page 9
"Can we go?" she whispered. "My face hurts from smiling."
"Let's go."
* * *
We walked out.
We didn't run. We strolled.
Past the window where the faces were pressed against the glass. Past the whispers that were now changing tone.
Did you see how he looked at her?
Maybe it's real.
He defended her.
We got to the truck.
Willow slumped against the passenger door.
"Oh my god," she breathed. "I think I'm going to throw up."
"Don't throw up in my truck."
"You were amazing."
She looked up at me. The streetlight caught the sheen of unshed tears in her eyes.
"You shut her down. You shut them all down."
"Tactics," I said. "Show of force."
"It felt like more than tactics."
I stood there on the sidewalk. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind the ache.
"You did good, Willow. You held your ground."
"I was terrified."
"Bravery isn't the absence of fear. It's action in spite of it."
She pushed off the truck. She stepped into my space.
She reached up. She adjusted my collar.
Her fingers grazed my neck.
"Thank you," she said. "For the suit. For the lies. For being my shield."
"I didn't lie about everything."
She paused.
"What part was true?"
"That my life is better with you in it."
The admission hung in the cold air.
Willow stared at me. Her lips parted.
People were coming out of the bar now. A group of smokers. They were watching us.
"We have an audience," I murmured.
"Good," she said.
She stood on her tiptoes.
She placed her hands on my chest.
She leaned in.
I thought she was going to kiss my mouth. My body tensed, ready for it, wanting it.
But she turned her head.
She pressed her lips to my cheek.
It wasn't a friendly peck. It was slow. Warm. Deliberate. Her mouth lingered against my jaw, right over the scar.
I closed my eyes.
I felt the soft exhale of her breath against my skin.
I felt the press of her body against the wool of my suit.
It was intimate. It was a claim.
She pulled back.
She looked at me, her eyes dark.
"Let them talk about that," she whispered.
I opened the passenger door for her. My hand wasn't steady anymore.
I walked around to the driver's side.
I looked back at the bar. The group of smokers was staring. Marian was standing in the window, watching.
I didn't glare.
I got in the truck.
And as I drove away, I realized the problem with fake dating.
It was starting to feel dangerously real.
Brewing Storms
Willow
The vibration of my phone against the center console shattered the silence in the truck.
I jumped, my heart still racing from the ghost of my lips on Ethan’s jaw. The screen lit up the cab, harsh and bright.
Riley.
It was almost midnight. Riley didn't call at midnight unless something was on fire or they had found a vintage jacket they couldn't afford.
I picked it up.
"Hey," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "We just left. We didn't throw up."
"Willow."
Riley’s voice wasn't snarky. It wasn't amused. It was wet. Thick. Like they had been crying.
A cold stone dropped into my stomach.
"Riley? What's wrong?"
Ethan glanced over. The streetlights washed his face in intermittent flashes of orange and shadow. He saw my expression, and his hands tightened on the wheel.
"You need to come back," Riley choked out. "Not to the Vine. To the gallery. My gallery."
"Why? What happened?"
"Someone... someone broke in. Or stayed late. I don't know. The alarm didn't trip until ten minutes ago."
"Is the art okay?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. I could feel it in the air, a static charge of disaster.
"Just come," Riley whispered. "Please."
The line went dead.
I lowered the phone. My hand was trembling.
"Ethan," I said. My voice sounded hollow. "Turn around."
He didn't ask questions. He didn't hesitate. He swung the truck into a U-turn, the tires screeching against the asphalt.
"Where?" he demanded.
"Riley's. The gallery."
He pressed the gas. The engine roared, a beast waking up.
"Tell me."
"Break-in," I said. "Riley sounded... broken."
Ethan’s jaw locked. He drove with a terrifying precision, weaving through the late-night traffic like he was driving a Humvee through a hot zone.
We reached the gallery in five minutes.
The front door was glass. It was intact. But the lights inside were blazing, illuminating a scene that looked like a crime scene.
Riley was standing in the middle of the main floor, hands covering their mouth. Two security guards were hovering uselessly by the desk.
And standing near the back, looking perfectly composed in her cream coat, was Marian DeWitt.
I opened the truck door before Ethan had fully stopped.
I ran.
My heels clicked frantically on the pavement. I burst through the doors.
The smell hit me first.
Not the pleasant, earthy smell of drying oil paint. Not the sharp tang of turpentine.
This smelled like chemicals. Like destruction.
"Willow," Riley sobbed, turning toward me. Their eyeliner was running in dark streaks down their face.
I looked past them.
I looked at the wall where my main collection had been staged for the review.
The world stopped.
It didn't just stop; it fractured.
My canvases. Months of work. Years of dreaming. All destroyed.
The City at Dawn, a massive four-foot piece I had spent three weeks blending, was slashed. Three long, violent tears ripped through the center, the canvas curling back like flayed skin.
Midnight in the Garden was gone. Completely gone. It had been spray-painted over. Crude, black lines zigzagged across the delicate blues and greens, obliterating the light.
And my centerpiece. The Boy with the Haunted Eyes. The one I had secretly based on Ethan, even before I knew him.
It was on the floor. The frame was smashed. A bucket of red paint—industrial, glossy red paint—had been poured over it. It pooled on the floor like blood.
I couldn't breathe.
The strength left my legs. The floor rushed up to meet me.
I didn't hit the floor.
Strong arms caught me. A solid chest pressed against my back.
"I've got you," Ethan growled in my ear.
He held me up. He absorbed my weight because I had none left. I was hollow. Scraped out.
"Oh god," I whispered. "Oh god."
"I'm so sorry," Riley wept. "I went to the back to check inventory... I left the side door unlocked for five minutes..."
"Such a tragedy," a cool voice said.
I looked up.
Marian stepped forward. She carefully avoided the puddle of red paint with her expensive heels. She looked at the destruction with the same expression she’d worn when looking at my muddy boots—distaste, mixed with a dark satisfaction.
"It really is a shame," she said. "But then again, security is expensive. When one runs a... budget establishment..."
She let the sentence hang.
My vision narrowed to a tunnel. A low hum started in my ears, drowning out her excuses. It burned away the tears.
"You did this," I said. My voice was a croak.
"Me?" Marian pressed a hand to her chest. "Don't be hysterical, darling. I just arrived. I saw the lights and came to check on poor Riley."
"You did this," I repeated, louder. I tried to step toward her, but Ethan held me fast.
"You have no proof," Marian said smoothly. "And making accusations will only hurt your reputation further. Unstable behavior, remember?"
She smiled. It was a shark's smile.
"Perhaps it's for the best," she continued, gesturing to the ruined art. "The board was going to cancel the show anyway. This just... saves everyone the embarrassment of a public failure."
She turned to one of the security guards.
"You really should call the police. Although, I doubt they'll find anything. These things happen in bad neighborhoods."
She started to walk toward the door. She was going to walk away. She was going to leave me in the ruins of my life and go home to her perfect, pristine mansion.
"Stop."
The word wasn't shouted. It was fired like a bullet.
Ethan released me. He stepped forward.
He didn't look like a doctor in a suit anymore. He looked like a soldier. His shoulders were squared, his hands loose at his sides but ready. The air around him seemed to drop in temperature.
Marian stopped. She turned, an annoyed look on her face.
"Excuse me?"
Ethan walked toward her. He moved with that predatory grace I had seen in the garden. He cut off her path to the door.
"You're not leaving," he said.
"You have no authority here, Dr. Rourke."
"I have eyes," Ethan said. His voice was low, terrifyingly calm. "And I have a nose."
He stepped into her personal space. He loomed over her, blocking out the light.
"You smell like solvents," he said.
Marian flinched.
"I was painting earlier."
"Industrial solvent," Ethan corrected. "Xylene. The kind used in spray paint."
He pointed to the black lines on my canvas.
"Like that."
Marian’s face paled beneath her makeup.
"That is ridiculous."
Ethan turned to the security guard.
"Lock the doors," he ordered.
The guard blinked. "Sir, I can't—"
"Lock the damn doors," Ethan roared.
The sound echoed off the high ceilings, shaking the glass. It wasn't a request. It was a command from a man who was used to life and death hanging on his words.
The guard scrambled to the door and locked it.
Ethan turned back to Marian.
"We are going to wait for the police," he said. "And when they get here, I am going to insist they test your hands for residue. I am going to insist they check the security cameras from the street, since I noticed your car parked in the alley, not out front."
Marian took a step back. Her composure cracked. A hairline fracture in the porcelain.
"You're bluffing," she hissed.
"Am I?" Ethan tilted his head. "I spent ten years reading people who were trying to kill me. You're shaking, Marian. Your left eye is twitching."
He stepped closer.
"You destroyed her work," he said softly. "You cut it. You defiled it. Because you're scared. Because you know that even with all your money and your politics, you will never have an ounce of the talent she has in her little finger."
"She's a mess!" Marian shrieked. The mask fell completely. Her face twisted into something ugly. "She's garbage! Cluttering up my gallery, stealing my commissions—"
"Your gallery?" Ethan interrupted. "This is Riley's gallery."
"I am on the board! I decide who belongs!"
"Not anymore," Ethan said.
He pulled his phone from his pocket. He held it up. The screen was recording.
"Confession," he said. "Admissibility might be tricky, but the Board of Directors will certainly find it interesting. Along with the footage from the alley cameras I’m sure exist."
Marian lunged for the phone.
Ethan caught her wrist.
He didn't hurt her. He just held her. Immovable. Stone.
"Don't," he warned.
He released her with a shove that sent her stumbling back.
"Stay there," he ordered. "Don't move. Don't speak."
He turned to Riley.
"Call the police. Now."
Riley, eyes wide with awe and terror, nodded and dialed.
Ethan turned to me.
The scary soldier vanished. The coldness melted from his eyes, replaced by a devastating warmth.
He walked over to where I was standing by the ruined painting.
I was staring at the red paint. It looked so much like blood. It soaked into the canvas, drowning the eyes I had painted with such care.
"Willow," he said.
I looked up at him. My vision blurred.
"It's gone," I whispered. "It's all gone."
"It's just canvas," he said. "It's just paint."
"It's me," I choked out. "That was me on the wall."
He reached out and pulled me into him. He tucked my head under his chin. He wrapped his arms around me, shielding me from the sight of the destruction.
"You're right here," he murmured into my hair. "You're safe. I've got you."
I held onto his lapels. I buried my face in the wool of his suit. I tried not to scream.
We stood there while the sirens wailed in the distance. We stood there while the police arrived and Ethan gave his statement with crisp, military efficiency. We stood there while Marian was escorted out, still screaming about how I was a fraud.
Ethan never let go of my hand. Not once.
When it was over, when the police had taken the report and Riley had closed the gallery, Ethan led me to the truck.
He buckled me in. He adjusted the heat.
He drove us home in silence.
But it wasn't the empty silence of before. It was a heavy, loaded silence. A silence that held the weight of what he had done.
He had fought for me.
He had stood in the fire and shielded me.
And I was terrified that I was going to ruin him for it.
* * *
The house was dark when we arrived.
Ethan unlocked the front door of the main house. He didn't steer me toward the guest house. He pulled me inside the fortress.
"You're staying here tonight," he said.
"I can't," I whispered. "My stuff..."
"You're not sleeping alone in that cottage."
He led me into the living room. He turned on a single lamp. The soft light cast long shadows across the pristine furniture.
I stood in the middle of the room. I felt dirty. Contaminated. I could still smell the solvents on my clothes. I felt like the red paint was on my hands.
"I need to shower," I said. "I need to get it off."
"Okay," Ethan said. "Upstairs. Master bath."
He guided me up the stairs.
The bathroom was like a spa. Slate tiles. Glass shower. White towels.
"There's towels in the cabinet," he said. "Soap in the shower. Take your time."
He turned to leave.
"Ethan?"
He stopped in the doorway.
"Don't go," I whispered.
He looked at me. His eyes were dark pools of blue.
"I'm not going far," he said. "Just outside the door."
He closed the door.
I stripped off the black dress. I let it fall to the floor in a heap. I stepped into the shower and turned the water on as hot as I could stand.
I scrubbed. I scrubbed until my skin was pink and raw. I tried to wash away Marian's voice. I tried to wash away the image of the slashed canvas.
But I couldn't.
The image of The Boy with the Haunted Eyes kept flashing in my mind. The red paint bleeding from his eyes.
It felt like an omen.
I turned off the water. I wrapped myself in a massive, fluffy towel that smelled like him.
I opened the door.
He was there.
He was sitting on the floor of the hallway, his back against the wall opposite the door. He had taken off his suit jacket and tie. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
He looked exhausted.
He looked up when I opened the door.
"Better?" he asked.
I shook my head.
The dam broke.
A sob tore from my throat. Harsh. Ugly.
Ethan was on his feet in an instant.
He crossed the distance between us. He didn't ask permission. He scooped me up into his arms, towel and all.
He carried me into his bedroom.
He sat on the edge of the massive bed and pulled me onto his lap.
"Let it out," he whispered. "Let it go."
I cried.
I cried for the paintings. I cried for the weeks of work. I cried for the humiliation of Marian’s words.
And I cried for him. For the way he had stood between me and the world. For the way he had broken his own rules to save me.
"I'm sorry," I gasped against his neck. "I'm so sorry. I brought this to your door. I brought the chaos."
"Shh," he soothed. His hand rubbed circles on my back, warm through the towel. "You didn't bring anything that wasn't already there. Marian is a poison. You just exposed it."
"She ruined it, Ethan. She ruined everything."
"She ruined canvas," he said firmly. "She didn't ruin the talent. She didn't ruin the artist. You can paint it again."
"I can't," I sobbed. "It's gone. The feeling is gone."
"It's not gone," he said. He pulled back to look at me. His hands cupped my face, thumbs wiping away the tears. "It's in you. It's who you are. You can't lose it any more than I can lose... my hands."
He looked at my wet hair. My red, swollen eyes.
"You're beautiful," he whispered.
The air in the room shifted. The grief didn't vanish, but it changed texture. It became something heavier. Hotter.
I looked at him. Really looked at him.
The lines of strain around his eyes. The pulse beating in his throat.
He was my anchor.
"Ethan," I breathed.
"Willow."
"Thank you. For being there. For catching me."
"Always," he vowed. The word sounded like a pact. A blood oath.
My hands moved up to his shoulders. I touched the bare skin of his neck.
"I don't want to be alone," I whispered. "I don't want to be in the dark."
