Paintings cover almost every wall.Seascapes, abstracts, portraits, and some watercolors.They’re beautiful, technically complex, emotionally resonant.And they all share a similar style.
“These are yours,” I realize, without looking for a signature.“You painted all of these.”
Shelby shrugs, but I catch the flush that creeps up his neck.“This place used to be my escape.I’d come here for a few weeks at a time, just me and the canvas and the ocean.”
I move closer to a large seascape that dominates the living room wall.The brushstrokes are confident, almost aggressive, but there’s a haunting in the way he’s captured the light on the water.It’s like beauty and danger exist in the same breath.
“They’re incredible,” I say, and I mean it.“Why didn’t you tell me you were this talented?”
“I haven’t been this version of myself in a long time.”He comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder.“You’re bringing him back.”
I turn in his embrace, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw.The stubble is rough beneath my fingertips.“I like this version,” I admit.“I like all your versions, but this one seems lighter.”
“He feels lighter.”Shelby presses his forehead to mine.“When I’m with you, I don’t hear the ghosts.”
We stand there for a long moment, wrapped in each other, while the Brazilian sun climbs higher and the ocean murmurs beyond the windows.
“So,” I finally say, breaking the comfortable silence.“What’s the plan for this honeymoon of ours?”
His grin turns boyish, and my heart does a ridiculous flip.“First, breakfast.I’m cooking.”
“You cook?”
“Álainn, I’m a man of many talents.”He releases me with a wink and heads toward the kitchen.“Go explore.Get comfortable.I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
He wasn’t lying about the cooking.
An hour later, I’m seated at a polished wooden table on the covered porch, staring at a spread that would make a professional chef weep.Fresh tropical fruits arranged in a colorful mosaic.Fluffy scrambled eggs with herbs.Crispy bacon.Freshly squeezed juice, the color of a California sunset.
“Where did you learn to do this?”I ask around a mouthful of the most perfect eggs I’ve ever tasted.
Shelby leans back in his chair, cradling a cup of coffee.The morning breeze ruffles his dark hair.He looks so different from the haunted man who returned from Russia, the controlled enforcer who serves the Syndicate with lethal precision.
Here, he’s just a man.My man.
“My mother,” he says.“She insisted all her boys learn to cook.Said she wasn’t raising men who couldn’t take care of themselves or their partners.”
The mention of Martha Boyle softens something in his expression.I grew up admiring her accomplishments.She ran Harvard’s department of Psychology and published outstanding research on trauma and recovery.Then, five years ago, she died in the hospital.Everyone thought it was an illness.Just recently, Shelby and his brothers discovered she was actually murdered.Her death still haunts the family.
“She was amazing,” I offer.
“Yeah, she was.”He’s quiet for a moment, gazing out at the ocean.“She liked you, you know, right?She always said the DiLorenzo women were forces of nature.”A rueful smile.“She was a close friend of your mother’s.”
“I miss my mother so much.I think about her every day.”The admission slips out before I can stop it.“I was fifteen when she died, ten years ago.My father changed after that.”I pause, surprised by the words coming out of me.I had never realized this before.“It was like losing her broke something in him.He became harder.Colder.More focused on the business.”
Shelby reaches across the table and takes my hand.“I’m sorry.That must have been lonely.”
“It was.”I turn my palm up to lace our fingers together.“Growing up, my house was a loving, safe space.After Mom died, Dad made sure we understood that love was a liability.Attachments made you weak.Trust made you vulnerable.Better to keep everyone at arm’s length.”
“Sounds familiar.Although I didn’t learn this from my parents,” Shelby murmurs, and we share a look of mutual understanding.
We’re two broken people who were taught that walls were safer than bridges.Yet here we are, slowly dismantling our defenses, one brick at a time.
With a wink, Shelby adds, “Jack and Martha were the happiest, most obnoxiously in love couple I’ve ever met.”
“I know!”I roll my eyes, playfully chuckling.“They dominated the dance floor at any Syndicate event.”
He laughs along before his expression turns serious again, and he changes the subject.“What changed for you?What made you decide to let me in?”
