He told himself it was simple hospitality. The town’s reputation depended on welcoming visitors appropriately, even the complicated ones. Especially the complicated ones, actually. Word got around when tourists felt unwelcome, and Starlight Shores needed their business, whether he liked admitting that or not.
But he knew it was more than economic strategy.
Something about her raw defensiveness at the market had gotten under his skin. The way she’d flinched when he’d mentioned her talent in the past tense. That comment had been unkind, even if he’d told himself it was protective. He’d seen genuine hurt flash across her face before she’d masked it with that brittle politeness she seemed to have perfected so well.
He recognized that hurt. Had worn it himself often enough.
He paused where the path met the main road, squinting against the lowering sun. A pickup truck rumbled past, the driver raising two fingers off the steering wheel in the local greeting. Grant returned the gesture automatically.
He started walking again, his pace slower now. The quiet afternoon stretched ahead with no appointments and no obligations. Just the familiar four walls and the artwork of people he trusted. People who’d never left Starlight Shores chasing something bigger and never forgotten where they came from.
People who weren’t Emily Shaw, with her expensive education and ruined reputation and eyes that looked like she’d lost something essential. He shouldn’t care about any of that.
But Emily’s presence unsettled him precisely because she represented everything he’d run from. The art world’s politics. The way reputations could be destroyed overnight. The cost of ambition when it collided with integrity, or just bad luck, or someone else’s agenda.
But there was something else. A recognition he didn’t want to acknowledge.
The way she’d looked at his gallery through the window had struck something deep inside. That hunger mixed with hesitation. That longing for a world she could no longer access. He’d worn that same expression countless times during his first months back in Starlight Shores, standing outside his half-finished gallery space and wondering if he was building something meaningful or just constructing an elaborate hiding place from what had happened with Miranda…
But he didn’t think about that anymore. Or at least tried not to. Tried not to remember the betrayal or the way his entire carefully constructed life had collapsed in the span of a single conversation. Tried not to wonder if he’d been running away or running toward something when he’d come home.
He stopped at the gallery’s front door, his hand resting on the familiar brass handle. Through the window, he could see the afternoon light pooling across the polished concrete floors and illuminating the carefully curated work of artists he’d handpicked. People he trusted. People who belonged.
He’d built something meaningful here. A space that honored his father’s memory while protecting local artists from the kind of exploitation he’d witnessed in New York. A gallery with integrity.
He pulled open the gallery door and stepped into the familiar quiet. Supporting other artists was his contribution now, and he’d found purpose in showcasing their work instead of creating his own.
Yes, running the gallery was enough.
The lie taunted him.
Chapter5
Arestlessness swept through Emily late that afternoon. Grant’s recognition of her, the careful way he’d circled around direct questions, and the unexpected gift of the pottery bowl unsettled her.
She stood in the cottage’s main room as the afternoon light slanted through the windows. The locked studio door seemed to mock her from across the space. The brief glimpse when she’d first arrived had been enough to send her retreating.
But now, with nervous energy humming through her and nowhere else to direct it, she found herself walking toward that door. Her hand hesitated on the knob. What was she so afraid of? That the space would judge her? That she’d feel her loss of everything that made her who she was, pressing down until she couldn’t breathe?
Or maybe she was afraid she’d feel nothing at all.
She unlocked the door, turned the knob, and pushed the door open. The studio greeted her with that perfect north-facing light she’d noticed before. The easel stood like a patient friend. The work table stretched beneath the window, its surface pristine and waiting.
She forced herself to step inside. To breathe. To look around without the panic that had gripped her during her first peek at this space.
The studio was smaller than her space in Chicago had been, but it felt more intimate rather than cramped. Someone had clearly designed it with care. She ran her hand along the work table’s edge, noting the quality of the wood and the thoughtful height that would prevent back strain during long sessions.
Built-in cabinets lined one wall, their simple design blending seamlessly with the cottage’s coastal aesthetic. She opened them one by one, finding them empty except for a few basic supplies. She discovered brushes, mostly dried out, a palette with ancient paint crusted on its surface, and a small box of charcoal sticks that looked like they’d been there for years.
As she examined the cabinets more closely, something struck her as odd. The proportions seemed inconsistent. Some shelves were deep enough for storing canvases or large supplies, but others were surprisingly narrow. They looked too narrow to be truly useful for art materials. She ran her fingers along one of the shallow shelves, frowning. Why would someone build storage that wasn’t practical?
As she knelt to examine the lower cabinets, she noticed small holes drilled through the back wall of one unit. Perfectly round, about the size of her pinky finger, arranged in a pattern that seemed too deliberate to be random. The holes formed what looked like a grid, with some positions filled and others empty. She peered through one of the holes but could only see darkness beyond.
These modifications didn’t match the cottage’s recent renovations. The wood of these cabinets was older, and the construction style was different from the rest of the space. Someone had built these features long ago, and they’d been preserved through subsequent updates.
But why?
Her gaze drifted to the largest cabinet, the one in the corner that looked heaviest. On impulse, she tried to shift it away from the wall. It barely budged. She braced her feet and pushed harder, feeling it scrape across the floor inch by inch. The effort left her breathing hard, but she’d created enough space to peer behind it.
