Page 59 of Nailed

The door shut behind him and I slammed my fist against it.

“Fuck you, Brock Lawson,” I said, closing my eyes and trying to summon as much anger as I could. Because the alternative was something I didn’t think I could handle. “Fuck you.”

22

Lauren

“Are you planning on adding another floor or something?” I asked teasingly, nodding at the bulky extra bag Callum had slung over his shoulder. He winked at me.

“Good morning, Miss Lauren. And no, though that does give me an idea to keep hanging around for a little bit longer,” he said, walking to the nearest table. He put the bag down with surprising care and called me over. “This is actually for you.”

I joined him with a curious smile, peering over his shoulder as he reached inside and pulled out a huge, hardcover book. I recognized it instantly and my heart fluttered. The pages were thick and glossy, the perfect type to hold deep ink saturations. On the cover was a sepia image of Chicago’s skyline and industrial bones with minimalist typography scrawling the word “legacy” across the front.

“Cal,” I breathed, awestruck at the thoughtfulness and expense that must’ve laid behind this gift. He handed it to me, a look of genuine happiness on his face. I handled it like glass, running a finger over the cover before turning to the title page and lifting the vallum overlay. “Cal, this must’ve been expensive!”

“Not at all,” he said and I knew that was bullshit. A high-quality coffee table photography book like this could easily run up to a thousand bucks for a luxury edition. Which this definitely was.

I fawned over the contents for a few moments, stunned. It was a snapshot into the city’s history through its architecture, a celebration of a culture that I was still an outsider to, but which Callum had essentially provided me with a guide to understanding. He looked at the photos with me, but even though he pretended to be as invested in the shots as I was, I could feel his eyes spending more time on me than the book.

I put it down and threw my arms around him.

“Thank you,” I mumbled into his soft flannel shirt. I breathed in his familiar scent and reveled in the strength of his arms when he put them around me. “This is perfect.”

“I’m glad you like it, darlin’,” he said, his voice a low vibration against my skin as he tucked his face into the curve of my neck.

Our hug lingered until Brock eventually cleared his throat. I craned my head around Callum’s frame to see him casually snap his heavy-duty tape measure back into its holder. “Beautiful book, Cal. Now put it somewhere the sawdust won’t ruin it, we’re burning daylight here.”

Even just a few days ago, that comment might’ve sounded harsh or impatient but there wasn’t any malice in the blunt way Brock delivered the words. Even Callum gave me another conspiratorial wink before heading back to his station for the day. Brock’s eyes stayed on me for a moment and the intensity of last night flashed between us in that shared look before he nodded his head and turned back to his own task list.

I’d spent the better part of the night mulling over what happened and trying to dissect Brock’s frustratingly guarded mind. My conclusion, of which I was fairly confident, was that the best way to meet his insistence on keeping things professional was simply to play his game and to play it better.

At least I didn’t cry.

I took a sharp breath, then pulled out my phone. Callum’s gift had done more than just warm my heart. It had given me an idea for how to handle the whole preservation group mess. Brock and Rafe could wait with their drama. I still had my own issues to solve that didn’t revolve around dick. At least not literally.

Clara picked up on the second ring as I wandered outside for some privacy.

“An early morning call. I hope you bring good tidings,” she said, affecting her usual sarcastic tone.

“Oh don’t worry. I bring good tidings indeed,” I said, watching as a cyclist zoomed past. “I think I came up with a damn good idea on how we can tackle the protest issue.”

“Hmm. I’m intrigued. Carry on,” she said.

“I’ve been so focused on trying to fight the preservation group with the legal system. Trying to prove that I went about buying this place the right way and with good intentions, but what if that was the wrong strategy? Talk is cheap and they’re probably tired of hearing the same spiel from people who actually are trying to buy them out of their neighborhood,” I started.

“That makes sense,” she mused. “PR campaigns are usually more focused on optics than action.”

“Exactly!” I said.

I thought about Callum. He wasn’t just a smooth-talker who knew what to say and when to say it. He used his action to put weight behind those words. He’d shown that to me over and over again, proved his support and reliability over the course of the past few months to the point that I felt secure with him. I knew he wasn’t just saying things to please me, and that book he bought me was like the ultimate expression of that reliability.

It inspired me to do the same thing.

“What if I just invited them to come and see for themselves what I have planned for this place? I can hold an exhibition and showcase all the photos I’ve been taking of the city since I first moved here,” I said.

“An exhibition?” Clara asked. “You’d be comfortable with that?”

“Yeah,” I said firmly. I raised my face to the sky, enjoying the morning breeze and early sunlight. “If I’m willing to let them inside, they’d have to recognize that I’m not trying to turn this place into some kind of exclusive, capitalistic tourist trap. I actually want to celebrate the local history and what better way to convey that than through photography? It’s what I do. Hell, it’s why I’m here.”