Chapter 11

ERIC

Later that evening, I sat at my desk, writing the next scene in my novel. It could have waited until tomorrow, but I was restless and needed something to take my mind off Riley.

We'd hardly spoken to each other all night. Talking while the band played wasn't an option, so that didn't worry me. Even when I sat on the far side of Jonathan, I hadn't been concerned. It wasn't until the band left the stage for a thirty-minute break that I knew something was wrong.

Maybe Riley knew I'd been snooping into his personal life? Alex might've said something about the burglary or asked too many questions about why he was here.

A flash of headlights lit up the living room. Riley was home.

I had a choice to make. I could stay on my side of the cottage, pounding words into my laptop, or I could ask him if everything was okay.

After deleting and rewriting the same paragraph three times, I made my decision. I'd talk to Riley.

I opened my front door and frowned. He was trying to take a long package out of the bed of his truck. Without thinking, I jogged toward him. "It looks like you could use a hand."

He glanced over his shoulder. "I should be okay." Wiggling the large, bulky package sideways didn't make it move. He opened the tailgate and peered under the topper.

I shined my cell phone's flashlight into the cargo area. "This might help."

Riley leaned forward and sighed. "The edge of the packaging is caught on a screw. I hope it hasn't damaged the canvases."

I glanced at the size of the parcel. It was huge—at least five feet long and four feet wide. "They'll be impressive paintings."

"They will be if I can get the canvases inside. I'll have to remove the topper."

I slid my phone into my pocket and flicked open the catches on my side of the truck. It was just as well Riley had parked close to the back door. Without the security lights, we wouldn't be able to see what we were doing.

"Where did you find them?"

"I always buy my canvases from a store in Chicago. They stretch each piece onto a frame and prime the surface for me. Jenny called this afternoon to tell me they'd arrived."

By the time I finished lifting the catches, Riley was ready to take the cover off the truck.

"Where do you want the topper?" I asked.

He looked behind him. "Over there will be okay."

We each took a side, carefully maneuvering it onto the ground.

Riley walked back to the truck and unhooked the packaging from the screw.

I waited by the tailgate. "I'll help you take them inside."

"I'll be all right. The canvases aren't heavy."

There's no way he'd be able to lift them into the cottage on his own. "It's an awkward size. Where are your house keys?"

Riley reached into his pocket and held up a key ring. "Here."

"If you open your back door, I'll carry it inside. Tell me if I'm going to hit anything." I lifted one side of the wrapped canvas and balanced it on the bed of the truck.

Instead of unlocking the back door, Riley didn't move. "You don't need to help me. I'm perfectly capable of moving it inside."

"Maybe I want to help."

"Why?"

I took a deep breath. Telling the truth had never been so hard. "Because I feel guilty. I know who you are and what happened in Italy."

Riley's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"Two of your paintings were stolen from your apartment in Venice. A third painting had already been sent to Denver for an exhibition."

"How do you know what happened?"

"Alex read about the burglaries on the Internet. Did you know the police think the mafia is involved?"

Riley nodded. "They said something about that."

"Were they involved?"

"I don't know, and I probably never will. Why were you looking for information about me?"

I relaxed my hands. Poking holes in the packaging wouldn't help anyone. "I wanted to make sure you were here for the reasons you said you were."

"Why?"

I looked at the canvases. I couldn't tell him the whole truth. Not yet. "I had a bad experience with the media. When my second book was published, everyone wanted to know who I was. Some people who I thought were my friends spoke to a reporter. Before I knew it, stories about me started appearing in magazines and newspapers. What the reporter didn't know, he made up. I came here to get away from all that."

"I don't blame you. It's hard making new friends when you don't know who you can trust."

I studied Riley's face. "You have the same problem?"

He nodded. "When I first lived in Europe, I didn't know anyone. After my third or fourth exhibition, I met a couple of people who seemed genuine. Six months later, one of them sold a story about me to a magazine. I try not to let that experience change how I interact with people, but it's hard."

"How do you keep your personal life and public profile separate?"

Riley shrugged. "I don't let myself get close to people, but that creates other problems."

I didn't say anything. I'd done the same thing, and it wasn't easy. Loneliness sneaks up on you so slowly that by the time it's there, it's too late to do anything about it.

"But we're not here to discuss my depressing personal life," Riley said. "Just promise me one thing."

"What's that?"

"If you want to know anything about me, just ask. But be warned. If I end up in one of your books, I'll sue the pants off you."

I lifted the canvases off the truck. "You won't end up in one of my books. Where would you like these?"

Riley opened the back door. "In my studio. It's the first door on your left." He raced across to me and grabbed the front of the canvas. "If we carry it together, I won't feel so bad about keeping you awake."

"It doesn't matter. I couldn't sleep, anyway." And that, I knew, wouldn't be changing anytime soon.