Chapter 14

RILEY

After dinner, I rinsed the soapsuds off a plate and handed it to Eric. "Was that better than your mac and cheese?"

"A lot better. I should have cooked something, but time has a habit of slipping away when I'm writing."

"It's the same with painting."

Eric stacked the plate on top of the ones he had dried. "I saw some of your landscapes on the Internet. They're incredible."

I smiled at the softly spoken compliment. "Thanks. I always try to do something a little different with each canvas."

"How long do they take to finish?"

"It depends on the size of the canvas and what I'm trying to achieve. If the painting has a lot of layers, it can take five or six months. Each layer needs to dry before the next one's added. That's why I work on multiple canvases at the same time. I once had five paintings all in various stages of work. That was a little crazy."

"Some authors are the same. They'll write one novel in the morning and another in the afternoon. I guess we all have to find a process that works for us."

"Before I came here, my process wasn't great," I told Eric. "I used to think that shutting myself off from the world was the only way I could create my paintings. But I've turned over a new leaf and I'm trying something different."

"How different?"

I grinned. "Life-changing different. I'm giving myself three days to lay the foundations for my paintings. I paint from seven in the morning until four in the afternoon. Unless I'm on a roll and then I'll take extra time off the next day."

"What made you want to change your painting process?"

"It wasn't a process. It was desperation. I went to art school on a full scholarship. I knew I'd need to sell paintings right after I graduated if I wanted to eat. So I worked hard, slowly building my collection into something I could market. Even after I became well-known, I worked long hours. The last nine years have disappeared and, apart from a healthy bank account, I don't have anything to show for it."

"You don't seem like the type of person who could lock himself away from the world."

I handed Eric the last dish. "You can do anything if you have the right motivation."

Eric's gaze lingered on my face. "I'm sensing there's a ‘but' in there somewhere."

"I lost track of what's important. I was so caught up with being a commercial success that I didn't spend time with the people I love." I glanced at Eric, wondering if he'd understand the guilt I was carrying. "Until Mom and I left Sunrise Bay, we lived in the cottage with my grandparents. Even when I was at college, I used to spend each vacation here. When I moved to Europe, all that changed. I could have come home more often, but I didn't."

"You were building your career."

I nodded, but it wasn't as simple as that. "I told myself the same thing, but it doesn't make me feel any better. Last year my grandparents died in a car accident. I'll never get back the time I could have spent with them." I took a deep breath and stared through the kitchen window. "Grandma and I used to sit on the veranda, talking about what's happening in our lives. Granddad took me fishing and told me stories about the boats he'd seen on Willow Lake. They were wonderful people."

"Your grandparents would have understood why you didn't come home."

"That doesn't make it okay." I turned to Eric, half-afraid to tell him how selfish I'd been. "Instead of going to their funeral, I went to the opening of my exhibition in London. Afterward, I knew I'd made the wrong decision."

"Is that why you're here now?"

I hesitated before answering. "It's part of it. This might sound strange, but I need to find the person I used to be. I was supposed to leave Venice in September, but the burglary brought my plans forward."

"And I nearly derailed everything by renting the cottage."

"It worked out okay," I said softly.

"It did." Eric folded the dishtowel and placed it on the counter. "If it's any consolation, I can relate to what you've said. While I was working in the police force, my entire life centered around my job. When I met Mike, I never thought we'd be more than friends. But over time, our friendship grew into love." He looked down at his hands. "In case you hadn't realized, I'm gay. I was going to ask Mike to marry me."

My eyes widened. I'd thought, even hoped, Eric was gay. But the enormity of what he'd lost far outweighed anything I felt. "I'm sorry. That must have been a horrible time."

"Not as horrible as realizing how isolated I'd become. After Mike's funeral, I took six months off work. I needed to make some changes in my life."

"Did you go back to your job with the police?"

Relief replaced the sadness in Eric's eyes. "No. While I was on leave, I submitted my first manuscript to an agent. They loved it and sent it to one of the largest publishing houses in New York City. Two weeks later, I signed a contract and started writing my second novel."

"Is your life heading in the right direction now?"

He looked away. "Until five months ago, I thought it was."

I didn't know what had happened, but Eric didn't seem happy. "Can you fix what's happened?"

"I thought coming here would have helped, but it hasn't. Someone's stalking me."

That was the last thing I expected to hear. "I didn't think people did that anymore."

"You'd be surprised. It started with emails, then escalated to letters and photos. I ignored most of what the person said until the photos started arriving. I heard about your cottage from a friend of your mom's. After what was happening, it seemed like the perfect place to lay low. Unfortunately, it hasn't stopped the letters."

"Does the person know you're here?"

"I don't think so. The letters are still being sent to my agent."

I frowned. "Is that why you don't want anyone to know you're a writer?"

"If the person who's stalking me knows I'm here, they could make everyone's life difficult. If you want me to move out, I will. It was hard enough dealing with what's happening myself. I don't expect you to get caught up in my mess."

I looked at Sherlock. He was curled in a ball, sound asleep on his rug. They'd both been through so much. "I don't mind you living beside me, but I think we should get a security system. It wouldn't hurt to replace the locks on the doors, either."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. The chance of anyone finding you here must be a million to one."

Eric didn't seem so confident. "If anything changes, I'll leave right away."

"If that makes you feel better, then okay. But for now, let's enjoy dessert. Would you like some chocolate cake with the ice cream you brought?"

"That would be great. I'll get the ice cream."

I was still thinking about what Eric had said when he placed the carton of ice cream beside me.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

I looked at him and frowned. "It's Jonathan you should be thanking. He dropped the cake off this afternoon."

Eric touched my hand. "I don't mean about the cake. I was thanking you for letting Sherlock and me stay here."

I moved my hand. The tingles rushing along my arm weren't the kind that bode well for a platonic friendship. Eric intrigued me. He made me wish I could let go of the past and jump into a new life. But I wasn't ready, and I didn't know when I would be.

"We're both making changes in our lives," I murmured. "If we can't rely on each other, who can we trust?"

"I wish it were that simple."

"So do I." I found a knife and cut two slices off the cake. When my apartment was broken into, I'd felt violated. Knowing someone had gone through my belongings and trashed the one place where I should have felt safe was devastating.

No one's ever stalked me, but it must be awful. No matter where you go or who you see, you'd feel as though someone was watching you. That kind of stress could break a person's confidence and their ability to live a normal life.

If I could make Eric's life easier by giving him somewhere safe to live, then that's what I'd do. Even if he made me wish our lives could be different.