She squeezed his hand, then let go before she could do something stupid. Like step closer. Like find out if his lips were as warm as his hands. “We should test the lighting. Make sure the paintings are visible from different angles.”
For the next hour, they worked side by side. Adjusting spotlights. Measuring distances. Avoiding each other and the growing tension that made every accidental touch feel deliberate.
“Try now,” Grant called from behind the desk where the lighting controls lived.
She studied her paintings under the new configuration. The lighthouse interior glowed. The seascape looked properly turbulent. The courtyard scene felt inviting.
“Perfect.” She turned to tell him and found him closer than expected.
Much closer.
“Sorry, I was just—” He started to step back.
“Grant…”
They stood there, caught in the space between stepping forward and stepping back. Her heart hammered.
This was such a bad idea. She’d come here to hide, to heal, and to figure out who she was without scandal defining her. Getting involved with anyone, especially someone who understood her damage so well, could complicate everything.
But when Grant’s hand came up to brush a strand of hair from her face, every sensible thought evaporated.
“Emily.” The way he said her name made it sound new, sound special.
She leaned in, or maybe he did, or maybe they both moved at once. Then his lips were on hers, gentle and sure, and she was kissing him back like she’d been wanting to for weeks.
The gallery, the paintings, and the festival all faded away. There was just this. The warmth of his mouth. The solid feel of his chest under her hands. The rightness of it, despite all the reasons it shouldn’t feel right.
When they finally pulled apart, her head spun. Grant looked equally stunned.
“I...” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t plan that.”
“Me neither.” She touched her lips, still feeling the echo of contact. “Grant, I don’t know if I can?—”
He stepped back, giving her space. “I know. We both have reasons to be careful.”
Careful. Right. Except she’d been careful for two years, and where had it gotten her? Alone in a cottage, afraid to paint, afraid to connect, afraid to live.
“I like you.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “More than I expected to. More than is probably smart. But I don’t know if I’m ready for... whatever this is.”
“I like you too.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “And I’m probably not ready either. But maybe we don’t have to be ready. Maybe we just have to be willing to see what happens.”
She considered this. In her old life, she’d planned everything. Calculated every move. Look how well that had worked out.
“One day at a time?” She offered.
He nodded. “I can do that.”
Chapter23
Emily reached for her coffee cup. The morning crowd at Harbor Brew buzzed with its usual energy as fishermen grabbed their daily caffeine before heading to the docks. Locals caught up on town gossip, and tourists asked for directions to the lighthouse. She’d started coming here most mornings, drawn by the warmth and the way people had begun to nod at her in recognition.
Not quite belonging, but no longer invisible either.
“Emily Shaw.”
The voice cut through the comfortable chatter like glass breaking. Her hand froze halfway to her cup. She knew that voice. Had heard it in her nightmares for months after everything fell apart in Chicago.
Julian Holloway stood three feet from her table. His expensive suit didn’t belong here. Neither did he. His face hadn’t changed since the courtroom. Same tight jaw. Same eyes that said he was the wronged party.
