She despised her own weakness.
Life had thrown her enough curveballs to fill a stadium, so why did this hurt so much?
Her lips trembling, she continued, “I didn’t ask to turn to jelly whenever you look at me. I didn’t ask to eat strange foods that all taste like how beige looks. I didn’t ask to be spied on and creeped out, or for someone to steal my glove, and try to frame me for ruining your precious portrait. And I certainly didn’t ask you to grind me under your boot like an insignificant bug. I didn’t ask for your anger or your suspicions or your pity when I say or do something wrong. Mostly I didn’t ask for you to hate me.”
When the last words finished ringing in the near silence, she slumped into the closest chair, and buried her face in her hands.
For all the angry, painful words she’d blurted like an idiot, she only had pride left. There was nothing in 1817 she could call her own other than the things she brought with her. How could a dying cell phone, stinky workout clothes, and portable Bluetooth speakers help? She’d shoved everything she owned into the back of an armoire, in the dark.
Forgotten.
Minutes ticked by in silence. Did he walk out of the room without saying anything?
He’d done it before.
Braving the world outside the warm, unrealistic safety of her cupped hands, she raised her head.
Her heart skipped a beat.
He was now standing just feet from her. He’d moved quite stealthily for a large man. His hands rested at his sides, his headbent, jaw tight, lips pursed, and his black eyes peered down at her with a look of confusion so profound she would’ve laughed if the tension in the room weren’t so oppressive.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
As much as his logical mind screamed, “Don’t trust her. Beautiful women can’t be trusted!” his instincts took up her cause with gusto. What would she gain from cutting the painting to pieces? She didn’t know the person in the portrait, and she certainly didn’t have a reason to slash it to ribbons. Not like he did. Staring down at her now, her face pale and her eyes glittering with unshed tears, he admired her strength. Once again, he’d acted the utter ass by accusing her of something she hadn’t done.
A muscle clenched in his jaw.
He’d called her motives and morals into question, and while he didn’t know much about her, he couldn’t picture her slashing a stranger’s portrait.
She didn’t do it.
He tipped his head back and closed his eyes.
When would he get things right with her?
Why did he lose all reason whenever she was involved? Yes, she’d lost her glove. Yes, she appeared preoccupied in the hallway. No, he didn’t know her well, but her explanation made sense, didn’t it?
Someone could steal the glove and plant it at the scene of the crime.
A knock soundedat the door, and Logan bid entry.
Two men staggered through the door under the weight of the largest portrait Haven had ever seen. As the men attempted to gently lay the painting down on his desk, she rose to her feet, unable to fight back the curiosity banging against the bars of her mind. If she was going to be blamed for vandalism, she was damn well going to see it.
Before the men left, another one arrived. He held pieces of the portrait in his hands, and carried them as he would his own newborn baby. He laid the pieces beside the ornate frame, bowed to Logan, and left the room with the other two in tow.
Logan walked behind his desk and stood staring down at the ravaged painting. His expression unreadable.
She stepped forward, but stopped.
Maybe this isn’t a good idea. Maybe I should just walk away and leave him to his…whatever this is.
She turned to the door, but his voice startled her.
“Don’t go.”
She planted her feet and waited for him to continue.
Confusion and anxiety coursed through her, pushing her heart into her belly. He picked up one of the pieces, and peered down at it like it was made of precious stones. Adoration brightened his face.
