Chapter Twenty-one: Electric Touch

Chapter Twenty-one

Lincoln

ELECTRIC TOUCH

Performed by Taylor Swift

In my office, the paper bag I'd placed the crumpled note in greeted me like a warning sign, reminding me of the ugly that had lined up in my life once more. I'd be happier when the note was gone, when Hardy and the Secret Service were tearing it apart and finding out who'd left it there.

But even with all that had happened, even with everything Willow and I had shared about the tragedies in our lives, my soul felt lighter than it had in…years. Maybe a decade. And that had everything to do with the woman making me dessert in my kitchen.

Her hesitancy made me want to push. To break it down. To make her see what I saw—what Sienna had seen. But Willow was also right. This thing between us had grown like a flash mob out of nowhere. And it could disappear just as quickly if we didn't stop to acknowledge what we felt. If we didn't stop to build a foundation that wouldn't melt away.

It surprised me just how much I wanted that foundation with her.

With Willow.

But how? How to do that when my life, the publicity of it, was a threat to her?

I didn't know the answer. I also knew I didn't need to find it while we were tucked away in my home with no press, no cameras, nobody but us. We were safe here.

Sure, the grocery store had been a risk, but I'd been careful, hadn't I? Even the unhappy old woman who'd stared at us hadn't whipped out her phone and taken a snap. No one knew where I was. Mom and her team had squashed any photos that had tried to leak.

I had a few days to figure it out. A few quiet days with Willow that I absolutely wanted.

Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was another thing I'd regret. But bringing her joy, touching her and listening to her gasp and moan… Damn, did I want that. And I could have it in the quiet of these four walls.

To stop my mind from whirling in a repeated circle of self-flagellation and hope and back, I turned from thoughts of her to the work I'd been putting off for days—bills, expenses, and new inventory for the D.C. gallery. It kept me occupied for a couple of hours until my phone rang, jingling in my pocket. I was almost surprised I actually had it on me still, and I picked it up without looking. "Yeah?"

"Who's the woman?" For half a beat I thought the husky, sensual voice was Felicity, and panic reared, but then Lyrica cleared her throat and added on, "Is she the reason you moved to Cherry Bay?"

My tension released once I realized who it was.

There'd been a few times last year when I'd been photographed with someone, an artist I was courting for the gallery or a random person at one of Dad's fundraisers, and Felicity had instantly called and demanded to know who the woman was that I was with. It had happened even before the breakup and restraining order. I hadn't understood how quickly she'd seen me with people until we found out she'd been having me followed.

Still, unease crept over my spine at the idea of anyone knowing about Willow, especially after I'd just convinced myself we were safe within these four walls.

"Exactly how did you find out about her?" I demanded.

"When I didn't hear from you after the meeting with Trinity this morning, I sent her a text. She said you ran out of the studio, chasing some blond apparition."

I swiped a hand over my face as thoughts of Sienna's ghost lingered in the room.

When I didn't respond, Lyrica apologized. "I'm sorry. That was a bad choice of words. You know I don't believe you see ghosts, right?"

I closed my eyes. All my secrets had come out because of fucking Felicity. For so many years, I'd thought it was just a shame-filled hallucination. But now, with Sienna back, demanding new things of me, I didn't know what it meant. Maybe the truth was much simpler. Maybe she was real—a ghost coming and going in my life.

I cleared my throat, ignored her question, and said, "You were right about Trinity's work. It's incredible. And, oddly enough, it's exactly what I was starting to envision for this gallery."

"You're changing the subject, but I'll allow it for now. Just know the conversation isn't over."

"You sound like Katerina."

Lyrica laughed. "I'll take that as a compliment. Now, tell me this vision you have."

I told her about the blend of photorealism and surrealism I was considering, the hint of fairy tale that this town seemed to bring to life. She listened, dropping a question or two here or there. "It's what I'm painting," I told her honestly. "Nothing I've ever done before. Might be crap. You'll have to be the judge of it, but regardless of whether I display my art or not, it's the vibe I want here."

"I can't imagine anything you created being crap, Lincoln, but I also know you sensitive-artist types need to have your egos stroked. I'll come down next week." She said the last part as if she was being forced into hell. "Now, tell me who the woman is."

My eyes went to the doorway and the sounds of the stand mixer I'd never thought I'd use but bought with the vision of family holidays in mind. The whirring noise was strangely and pleasantly calming.

"I'm not ready to share Willow with anyone yet."

There was silence over the line for a beat before Lyrica said, "Well, fuck. That means it's actually serious. Why didn't you tell me?"

I was caught between a rock and a hard place. If I told her I'd known Willow for mere days, I'd never hear the end of it. But if I let her think it had been longer, she'd be hurt I hadn't told her before now.

"I didn't know her before I moved here," I finally said. I'd lived here for over a week, hadn't I? Wasn't that enough time to find someone and date them?

She huffed out a laugh. "Now, that's my Lincoln. Always feeling too much, too quickly. I hadn't even recognized that you'd whirled me into a relationship until the rest of the world proclaimed it."

"This is different," I snapped.

"It's not a negative trait," Lyrica said softly. "You stick your heart on your sleeve, and it's beautiful to watch. It worked its spell on me until I realized I loved you but wasn't in love with you. You've been hurt a lot, by me and others. I just don't want to see you get trampled again."

My jaw ticked. "You were the only one who got hurt."

She sighed. "How many times have I told you—"

"It's not my fault. Believe it or not, I'm getting there."

Surprise drifted over the line. "Really?"

"Maybe."

"If this is because of her, I like her already," Lyrica added.

The doorbell rang at the same time as I got a notification on my phone app. When I swiped it open, I saw a man in a black suit and sunglasses that all but screamed special agent.

"Gotta go. Someone's at the door," I said. "I'll talk to you later."

I barely heard her goodbye before I hung up and headed toward the entryway. When I looked toward the kitchen, Willow was in the archway with a frown on her face.

"It's the Secret Service," I told her and saw her shoulders relax.

I opened the door slightly and was barely able to get out a hello before the man in front of me was whipping out his badge. "Hardy sent me. Special Agent Johnson. You have something for me to pick up?"

The guy was irritated, likely figuring whatever job he'd been doing in D.C. was more important than this. But it wasn't on me that Hardy had sent him.

"Come on in," I said, swinging the door open. He barely glanced around before following me into the study where I picked up the bag I'd put the note in. As I turned to hand it to him, Willow came in, wiping her hands on a towel, nervously glancing between me and the agent.

The look on the agent's face as he glanced over her was enough to make a feral growl lodge in my chest. He took her in slowly and appreciatively from the top of the long moonlit hair she'd secured in some messy contraption on top of her head, over the slender curves and her fuller hips, to the hint of long leg that showed through another diaphanous skirt. His gaze lingered on those curves on the way back up before landing on her face once more.

I wanted to punch him. I wanted to shove the note in his hands and slam him out of the house.

And yet, I also couldn't blame him because Willow was stunningly beautiful even with a swipe of flour on her face and a berry stain on her shirt.

I crossed the room and handed him the note before clenching my hands at my sides. "Thanks for making the drive out."

"Hardy said it was important," Special Agent Johnson said, but the doubt rang through his words. As almost every agent I'd encountered had been excellent at keeping their emotions from their voice, it made this guy's rookie status clear. "Has me going over to some place called Flat Mike's to follow up on a guy named Pacheco Malta."

Willow snorted, and both our eyes snapped to her. She bit her lip, tugged at her necklace, and then said, "Sorry, but if you show up at Flat Mike's looking like that, you'll be lucky if you just get tossed. They don't approve of law enforcement there."

Johnson looked down at his suit, tugging at the lapel with a snap, ears turning red. "I have a change of clothes in the car."

Instead of allowing this conversation and his clear interest in Willow to continue, I directed him toward the front door. "Tell Hardy I said thanks for looking into it for me."

I basically shut the door in the guy's face before whipping around to Willow.

"That was rude," she said.

I stalked over to her, brushing at the flour on her cheek. "He was ogling you."

She laughed, batting my hand away and using the back of hers to rub at her face. "Ogling? Is that even a word we use in the twenty-first century?"

I shrugged, eyes narrowing in on the bits of dust still clinging to her and wondering what she was creating. "What are you making?"

"Dinner and dessert, just like I promised. I hope you don't mind, but I borrowed a sketchpad you had on the buffet."

I tried to remember when I'd left one there and couldn't. "Was it empty?" I asked.

"Had a bunch of sketches of the angel from the O'Bannon mausoleum," she said, eyes darting away. "I'm sorry, I probably should have asked… And I definitely shouldn't have looked if you didn't give me permission."

I remembered drawing the broken-winged angel over and over after I'd first seen Willow in the cemetery and thought she was Sienna. I hadn't been able to get it out of my head, and it still wasn't right, even now, as part of the scene I'd spread across three canvases at the gallery. But I hadn't just sketched the angel in that book. I'd also drawn Willow before I'd seen her up close and personal, before I'd been able to give life to the vision, and before I'd figured out why something was off as I'd tried to force Sienna into the scene.

"You're welcome to anything in my house," I told her honestly.

Her eyes drifted back to mine, wide and surprised. "You really shouldn't offer that sort of thing to people who are practically strangers. They could steal from you."

"I didn't make that offer to anyone. I made it to you. Are you going to steal from me, Willow?"

"Of course not!" she blustered.

The timer went off, and she rushed down the hall to the kitchen. I followed, drawn by the sweet scents coming from the oven as much as her.

I almost laughed when I walked in. Almost every available surface in the kitchen was being used. It wasn't messy as much as organized chaos.

I approached the sketchbook on the corner of the island. Sitting just above it was her phone, open to an image of a Gustav Klimt landscape. On the sketchpad, she'd drawn a rather crude recreation of the masterpiece and then dissected it with circles, writing the names of different sweets inside them.

"You're going to make a Klimt?"

She pulled something that smelled like warm brownies mixed with the scent of a berry field from the oven.

When she turned, her face was flushed, and it wasn't just from the heat coming from the open door.

"It's probably ridiculous. But I don't have the skill for faces yet, and I love the gold leaf he added to many of his pieces. I'm probably trying too hard, but I can't get it out of my head, so I know it's what I should be working on."

I understood that more than she'd ever realize, an idea taking hold and not letting go. But the only thing I couldn't get out of my head right now was Willow. I itched to be back at the studio, painting her. Brushing her over canvas. Portraying her as I saw her now with the light pouring in from the window, turning those moonlight strands into sparkling crystals. Beautiful pink staining her cheeks. Brilliance surrounding her like a halo.

The angel I needed to match the demon I'd painted.

I did what I always did when an image consumed me. I headed for the door and my studio. I fished around in my pockets, trying to remember where I'd placed my keys. "I have to go. Stay here. Don't leave. I'll set the alarm."

She followed me. "You're leaving?"

The hint of panic in her voice stalled me just as I picked up the keys from the side table I'd tossed them on earlier. I turned around to see alarm flit across her face that she tried to hide.

The artist in me was clamoring to pour her onto paper. The need was so great I could almost feel the strokes. The squish of the tube. Smell the turpentine and oil paints.

But then, the image of my kitchen and the carefully constructed chaos hit me. She'd stayed here all day after visibly shuddering at the idea of going home to the cottage. She didn't want to be reminded of what had happened, but more, she didn't want to be alone. She'd bounced back from the note, from the flicker of fear that it might have been the Viceroys coming after her, but that terror still lurked under the surface, ready to burst out again at any moment.

She'd lived with that nightmare for six years. I hated it. It made me want to find and destroy Aaron and whoever else was tied to his organization with my bare hands.

So, for the first time in maybe my entire life, I denied myself the thing I'd always allowed to consume me. Instead, I tossed the keys back where I'd found them.

"No. I'm not leaving." I shook my head.

Her shoulders went back, and that resilient smile I now saw as forced returned. "It's okay. Seriously, go do what you need to do. I'll clean up and try to get out of your hair."

She was halfway back to the kitchen before I caught her, banding my arm around her and drawing her to me. With a hand to her chin, I forced her to look at me. "You're not in my hair, and I don't want you to leave. I've told you that already, and I absolutely meant it."

She pushed her forced beam up to full wattage. "I'm being ridiculous."

"Even if you hadn't had a huge fright today, I'd ask you to stay. I'd want you here. But knowing you'd be at your house alone, that someone else might know that too…" I shook my head, acid burning my throat at the mere idea. I brushed my thumb over her lower lip, and her breathy exhale coasted over my skin, setting me ablaze. "Stay. Stay here. Stay tonight. Stay tomorrow. Stay for as long as you like."

Her eyelids fluttered closed. The long pale lashes another image I wanted to capture.

"I'm off today and tomorrow. Mom will be back on Sunday by the time I'm done at The Tea Spot. If you don't mind, I'd like to not be alone until then."

I wanted her to stay because of me. Because she couldn't get enough of me. Not because of the fear about being by herself. But I'd take whatever I could get. I'd take what I could of Willow whenever and however she was willing to give it.