“Unfortunately, I didn’t get the painter gene,” he says. “Not for lack of trying. It seems I’ve only got the collector one.”
I sigh. “I used to love to paint.”
He glances at me in surprise. “You don’t do it anymore?”
I shake my head. “I haven’t done it since. . . I used to have an easel. A really big one that my parents got me when I was a kid. Wooden and perfect and everything I’d ever wanted. They saved for a couple of months for it. When I got married to Ric and tried to bring it with me, it. . . he said it broke. He used it for kindling. Apparently, a wife shouldn’t focus on painting. She should focus on her husband. Anytime I tried to do any sort of art, he’d accuse me of neglecting him and my supplies would mysteriously disappear again. So, I stopped.”
He'd gone still at my admission, his eyes tracing my face as I talk. When I finish, his hand slides over mine in comfort. “Would you paint with me sometime?”
I bite my lip and study the painting in front of me again. “I’m not very good.”
“Neither am I,” he muses.
“I’m not sure I even remember how to?—”
“Then we can learn together,” he says.
I look up at him to find he’s already looking at me, and something in his eyes looks very unprofessional. In fact, this all feels as far from professional as someone can get, but I don’t look away. My mind suddenly flickers with the image of him leaning down to kiss me, of his hand wrapping around the back of my neck and him pinning me against the wall like one of these paintings. I shiver at the imagery of it, at how badly I want it, but blink to clear it quickly, not wanting to ruin the plan. I can’t fall for the man helping me do this. I can’t ruin it before it’s begun.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, his eyes tracing my face.
I’m flushed. I know I am. I can feel it. “Nothing,” I lie. And then I check my phone to escape his penetrating gaze. Something tells me he knows, and how terrible would that be for him to know I’m no different than any other woman he’s encountered? Dagen Fox must not go anywhere without attention, and maybe he likes it. To me, it would be endlessly frustrating. When I see the time on my phone, I tilt my head. “Would it be possible to pick up Elsie on the way home?” I ask, but then I wince. “Oh, wait. There isn’t a backseat in your car.”
“No problem,” he says. “I’ll have the Aston Martin switched out by the time we go out there.”
I stare at him in surprise. “You can do that?”
He laughs. “You’d be surprised what money can do.”
We stroll back through the museum, and I’m sad we didn’t get to see all the art, but we can always come back another day.
Will you paint with me?
I don’t think a man has ever asked me to paint with them, let alone seemed eager to. But I hadn’t been lying. I haven’t painted in so long, I doubt anything I produce will be any good by this point. Still, the temptation. . .
Sure enough, when Dagen hands his card to the valet, a different black car pulls up, this time a Porsche with a backseat big enough to pick up Elsie. Another car appears behind it, a couple of guys with sunglasses in the front seats. When I tense, Dagen follows my gaze.
“They’re with me,” he says.
“Oh,” I answer, relieved, before climbing into the car and buckling my seatbelt. “I didn’t realize you have your own security.”
He nods as he climbs in. “They’ve been with us the whole time. I wasn’t going to leave you by yourself after what that asshole pulled earlier.”
I hadn’t even realized they’d been there while I’d been sitting in the car, only that Larry had been sitting close. Which only shows how oblivious I am, and how much I need to pay better attention. Elsie’s safety depends on it.
I don’t have to tell Dagen where to go to pick up Elsie. It would have worried me if I didn’t know it was because of all the security measures. Apparently, he’d even donated better security systems to her school as well under the ruse of charity. The school had been grateful and accepted, and part of me had softened toward the CEO for that act alone. He doesn’t have to go so above and beyond, but he is. Whether he’s protecting his investment or not, it doesn’t matter. He’s doing us a service and he’s keeping us safe.
I’d texted Tonya on the way that I was going to pick up Elsie, so it was easy enough to park and climb out to wait on the sidewalk with the rest of the parents. Dagen stands beside me, his fingers flying across his phone as he addresses some emails. When a bell rings from inside and kids start streaming out, I smile when I see the bright eyes of Elsie as she skips out. She smiles and then freezes when she sees Dagen standing beside me.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “He’s a good friend.”
Dagen immediately puts his phone away and smiles softly. “Hi, Elsie. I’m Dagen. I’m working with your mom.”
She tilts her head. “The security man. The one who sent the science kit?”
He nods. “That’s me.”
She glances between us, taking in how close we’re standing. It’s only as she perceives it that I realize we’re probably far too close to each other to appear professional.
