At the pottery stall, she lingered despite herself. A mug caught her eye, glazed in swirling blues and greens that captured the Gulf’s shifting colors. She picked it up, running her thumb along the smooth rim.
“Beautiful work.” The voice behind her sent a jolt of recognition through her body.
She turned to find Grant standing close enough that she caught the scent of coffee and a hint of his woodsy aftershave. His dark hair caught the morning light, and those blue-gray eyes studied her closely.
“Yes, it is.” She set the mug down carefully, fighting the urge to flee.
“Jim does excellent pottery. That glaze technique takes years to master. I feature his work at the gallery sometimes.”
She nodded, searching for a polite escape route.
He reached out a hand. “Grant Stone.”
Ah, he was the owner of the gallery, like she’d guessed. She reluctantly shook his hand. “Emily.” Emily with no last name.
But he wasn’t moving away. If anything, he seemed to be examining her face with the same careful attention he might give a painting.
“I thought I recognized you the other day at Harbor Brew.” His voice carried a note of discovery that made her watch him carefully. “Couldn’t quite place you then, but now...”
She watched the recognition dawn in his eyes, saw the exact moment when he connected her face to whatever he’d seen in those art magazines. His expression shifted, wariness replacing curiosity.
“You’re Emily Shaw.” Not a question. A statement weighted with everything those words now meant in the art world.
Heat flooded her cheeks. She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze directly even as her hands trembled around the bag handles. “Yes.”
She waited for the accusations, the questions about Franklin and the scandal that had destroyed everything she’d built. Instead, Grant’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if he were reassessing a painting he’d initially misjudged.
“I read about the situation.” His tone remained neutral, but she heard the suspicion underneath. “Must have been difficult.”
Difficult. Such a small word for having her life torn apart, her reputation shredded, and her marriage dissolved. She forced a brittle smile. “I should go.” She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.
“Are you planning to stay in Starlight Shores long?”
The question sounded casual, but she heard the real concern beneath it. Was she here to exploit their small town? To use their picturesque lighthouse as a backdrop for some redemptive artistic comeback? She’d seen that look before, in gallery owners who’d once welcomed her and then turned away when the scandal broke.
She met his scrutiny with her own. “I haven’t decided. Is that a problem?”
Something flickered in his expression. It wasn’t quite hostility, but it certainly wasn’t welcome either. “Just curious. We don’t get many… established artists here.”
The pause before the word “established” felt deliberate, and her defenses snapped into place. “Former artist, you mean. I don’t paint anymore.”
“No?” His gaze dropped to her hands, and she realized she’d been unconsciously rubbing her thumb against her fingers, the way she used to test paint consistency. “That’s a shame. Whatever else happened, you had talent.”
Had. Past tense. The word stung more than it should have from a stranger. “I need to go.” She stepped backward, nearly bumping into another shopper. “Excuse me.”
She turned and walked away, feeling his eyes on her back. Her hands shook as she gripped the market bag tighter. So much for anonymity. By tomorrow, everyone would know exactly who was staying at Winnie’s lighthouse cottage. The disgraced artist. The fraud. The woman who’d betrayed her dying mentor’s trust, no matter what the lawyers said.
She quickened her pace, weaving between market stalls toward the parking area. She’d been foolish to think she could disappear in a small town. Grant owned a gallery. He’d have connections throughout the art world and would know all the sordid details of her fall from grace. The way he’d looked at her, measuring and finding her wanting...
“Wait.”
Footsteps behind her. She didn’t turn, didn’t slow down until a hand touched her elbow. The contact sent an unwanted spark through her arm.
“Please.” Grant stood beside her now, slightly breathless. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong.”
She pulled her arm free, anger replacing embarrassment. “Which part? The part where you implied I’m here to exploit your town? Or where you relegated my entire career to past tense?”
He had the grace to look uncomfortable. Up close, she could see flecks of cerulean in his eyes, the kind of color that came in tubes labeled sky blue but never quite captured the real thing.
