“What else are you working on?”
“I’m finishing some canvases for an exhibition in Bozeman. After that, a client wants me to take photos of a property she’s turning into a retirement village.”
“I didn’t know you shot commercial photographs.”
Willow took a slice of cake out of the freezer and popped it into the microwave. “The chairperson of a retirement trust in San Francisco saw the photos I took of the tiny home village. She asked me to do the same for her new development. It’s not what I normally do, but I’m happy to help.”
Zac walked toward a five-foot-wide canvas hanging on the wall above the kitchen table.
She’d spent a lot of time creating the scene of an urban city. With its clear blue sky, multi-colored low-rise apartments, and large, open spaces, it made her smile each time she saw it.
“If the photos are anything like this one, they’ll be more than happy with the end result.”
“They’ll be similar. But I’ll have to layer the architect’s impression of the buildings on the land the trust has chosen.”
“This photo is amazing. Where is it?”
“It doesn’t exist.”
Zac looked at her.
She could tell by his frown that he was confused. “I created the image for a workshop I ran at Pastor John’s church. The theme was Imagination for the Soul. This was my representation of the perfect city.”
Willow checked the coffeepot before standing beside Zac. “I wanted to create a city where people could easily move between different locations without feeling stressed or unsafe. Cycle and walking tracks outnumber the other roads. None of the buildings are more than four stories high and everyone, regardless of their circumstances, has somewhere safe and warm to live.”
“You’re an idealist.”
“I am, but it has a downside.”
“It does?”
Willow nodded. “It’s easy for people to take advantage of you.”
“Like your manager did when you were singing?”
“I was too trusting.” The air in the kitchen crackled with emotion. Her manager had told her she needed a thick skin to survive in the music industry. When she discovered what he’d done, the only thing she was thankful for was that she hadn’t listened to him.
Zac lifted his hand and pushed a strand of hair away from her face. “You should have been able to trust him. He was supposed to help you, not steal the rights to your songs.”
She could have stood here all day, gazing into Zac’s eyes. But that wouldn’t get her work done or protect her heart from breaking when he left.
So instead of enjoying being close to him, she stepped away and forced a smile. “I’d better make the coffee. Would you like cream and sugar?”
“That would be great. And Willow?”
“Yes?”
“You can trust me.”
Zac’s softly spoken words made her heart pound. She might be able to trust him, but could she trust herself?
Chapter Eight
Staininga deck wouldn’t rank high on most people’s list of things to do on their vacation, but Zac wasn’t most people.
His visits home had been few and far between. Standing outside, working on the home he’d spent months planning, was more like therapy than hard work.
Wiping the sweat off his forehead, he took a moment to survey what he’d done. Dark wood, gleaming from a fresh coat of stain, ran the length of the upper floor deck. At the rate he was going, he’d be finished by tomorrow afternoon.
