“I’m sorry. I’m Fredericka. I … was supposed to meet Brandon Hart here at ten? The door was open.”
The woman stood silently for several long, uncomfortable seconds before she found her voice. “That’s my brother. He … he’s in the backyard working on his art.”
“Should I come back in fifteen minutes?” Fredericka asked.
“No. Come in. I’m … Linda.”
Fredericka picked up her case and eased in, looking around as she moved. In the corner of one room were eight wind chimes hanging from the ceiling. One of the artists’, Fredericka assumed.
The chimes started moving and the soft ringing sounds filled the room.
For all the gallery lacked on the outside, the inside looked good. Fresh paint brightened the walls and the floor had been polished. The shelves against the wall appeared new. The refurbishing smells hung in the air, stinging Fredericka’s sinuses.
“Should I set up my stuff for him to see?” Fredericka motioned to the top of one of the glass display cases.
“Sure.” Linda twisted her hands together as if nervous, which didn’t make sense, since Fredericka was the one about to be judged.
A rhythmic thud came from the backyard. She couldn’t help but wonder what kind of art Brandon did and if that was him making that noise. But not wanting to come off as nosy, she pulled out her black display board and fit the small hooks into the board, then started pulling out her jewelry. As her gaze passed over the name scrawled across the bottom, she pushed the hurt aside.
While the sounds outside continued, the house grew too quiet. An awkward kind of silence thickened the air. “Your brother said he was interviewing other jewelry artists. I’m hoping he’ll appreciate my work.”
When Linda didn’t answer, Fredericka looked around. The woman was gone. But damn, she moved soundlessly. With Fredericka’s were hearing she didn’t miss much. Fighting a chill, the wind chimes started up again. The sound was almost sad.
She hung her last necklace—even rearranged the placement of one pair of earrings. Looking around to make sure Linda hadn’t returned, Fredericka inched closer to the window, wanting a peek at the man who would judge her. Her breath caught when she saw the sculpture. The wooden horse stood at least six feet tall. Carved to perfection, each dip and valley on the animal showed bone and muscle.
Then her gaze shifted to the second very nice piece of art. Only this one was flesh and blood. Standing with his back to her, the dark-haired artist wore jeans, and the faded blue denim nicely fit the lower half of his body, showcasing his own perfection.
Equally nice was the shirtless upper part of his body. He pulled the axe out of the large piece of tree trunk and brought it down again.
She admired the way his body moved, muscles rolling under light olive skin. This time however, when he pulled the axe out of the wood and swung the tool up, she saw it. The side of his torso.
Air locked in her chest as she studied his scars.
Burn marks.
She knew, because she’d stared at her own too long. He shifted his stance, and gave her a view of his profile. He bore a scar on the left side of his cheek, then another one on the left side of his forehead. They weren’t as bad as the one on his side, not puckered, just a slight discoloration, and the skin looked pulled a little tight.
All of a sudden, as if he sensed someone watching, he swung around. His eyes, blue, bright blue like a summer sky, met hers. His gaze and his frown became so intense, she felt trapped.
He snatched up a shirt hanging over a patio table and she recalled doing the same thing yesterday when she’d heard Kylie coming to the workshop.
She should have looked away, offering him a bit of privacy, but she couldn’t. Instead, she watched him slip his arms into the shirt and tackle one button at a time.
One.
Two.
Three.
He was covering that beautiful chest.
But good God, she shouldn’t be watching. Especially when he watched her watch.
It wasn’t until that last button was secured that she snapped out of it. She turned and stared instead at his art. But her gaze didn’t stay there. She glanced back at him.
There was just something … raw and feral about this guy. And it both fascinated and scared her. That was a first. She’d never found herself the least bit fascinated, or scared, of a human.
Or was he even … human?
Right then he snagged a baseball cap off the table and slipped it on, covering his forehead, and covering the pattern only supernaturals could see to identify species. With a definite frown in place and his shoulders tight as if in defense mode, he hurried inside. His pace, his intensity reminded her of a … wolf.
One about to attack. And she was his prey.
“Can … I … help you?” His voice came out deep and masculine, his frustration clear in his clipped tone. He gave the door a good swing behind him and it slammed with a whack.
She jumped. “I … I’m Fredericka Lakota.” Her voice shook, and her skin felt supersensitive, like just before a shift. What was it about this guy?
Then a better question hit. What was this guy? She lifted her gaze up to his forehead again. The hat covered it. She inhaled, trying to pick up on his scent. She got human, but … maybe something else.
He stood there for a second, his expression shifting away from anger. He gave the bib of his hat a good tug. “I’m sorry, I … completely forgot about the appointment. I do that when I’m starting a new piece.”
“No problem. I do that, too.”
He glanced at the display board standing up on his table. He eased in, offering her only the right side of his face, no doubt to keep his scars out of her line of vision.
“I’m guessing this is yours?” He motioned to her display.
“Yes.” As soon as his gaze shifted from her eyes, hers shifted back to his face, trying to see under his cap’s bib to catch a glimpse of his pattern. She even leaned in a bit.
He unexpectedly shifted his gaze back to her and caught her staring.
She glanced away, too quickly, and damn it she knew he thought she was looking at his scar. She almost wanted to explain, but what could she say, I was just checking to see if you were human? Yeah, that would go over like a fart in church.
“These are silver, right?” he asked, glancing away, but not before she saw emotion touch his eyes. She wouldn’t call it embarrassment, but it was something close. That feeling one got when they were exposed and wished they weren’t.
And damn it, but she knew that feeling so well.
“Are they silver?” he repeated.
“Yes,” she answered, flustered.
“You like wolves?” he said, quickly cutting his eyes up to her face. Was he trying to read her pattern? Before she could tell, he focused back on the jewelry.
“Sort of,” she said, now more curious.
“You use a kiln?” He didn’t look at her now. For some reason that stung.
“No, a torch.”
He nodded. “So … how much are you pricing these for?”
“I’m thinking ninety for the chain and pendant, or the whole set with the earrings for a hundred and ten.” She waited for him to tell her it was too much. That she simply gave herself way too much credit.
“You need to charge more,” he said.
Stunned, she could barely find her voice. “You think people will pay more?”
He shifted his eyes to her without moving his face. “I think you’re worth more than that.”
A breeze of pure joy whispered through her. He liked her work. On the inside she did a happy dance. On the outside she stood completely still, an odd kind of energy buzzing through her.
“Can you do custom designs if someone wants it?”
She hadn’t considered it, but she could. She nodded.
“Is this all the stock you have?”
“Right now, but I could do at least three more sets before the store opens.” That was pushing it, bu
t damn it, she wanted this.
“Okay.”
Okay what? “Does this mean I get the gallery space?”
He hesitated. Fredericka’s heart stopped. Everyone at the school had plans, career choices, college choices. Fredericka only had her art. Was it too much to want it to mean more than just a passing hobby?
“You haven’t seen the contract yet,” he said.
“I’m sure it will be fine.” She felt herself smiling, something she didn’t do a lot of.
He turned his head to look at her. She caught a quick glimpse of his scar again, before he turned back. Her thoughts shifted from curiosity to empathy. How would she feel if she couldn’t hide her scars? If they were out there for the world to see? She’d have become a hermit. But maybe her scars were deeper than his—tied to shame and … murder.
Either way, her admiration for Brandon Hart inched up.
With half his face turned away from her, he looked from her jewelry to her. “You … you’ll have to man the store at least two days a week.”
“Weekends okay?” she asked.
He stood there as if thinking. “You work somewhere else?”
“No, I … I’m finishing up school.”
“College?” he asked.
“High school.”
“How old are you?”
“How old are you?” she countered.
He frowned ever so slightly. “I’m not applying for a job.”
“Maybe I’m just curious,” she said. And she was, and not just about his age. But about his scars and … even more about his species. Was she wrong that his scent actually had some trace of supernatural in him? If he’d take off that darn hat, she’d be able to know.
He stood there waiting as if expecting her to give in and tell him her age. She didn’t budge. The silence hung heavy. Then he caved. “I’m twenty.”
She nodded. “I’ll be eighteen next month. I got a late start in school.”
“Can you do some half days during the week?”
“I might be able to swing it.” Hopefully she could convince Holiday.
“Ten percent of sales goes to help pay for the upkeep of the gallery.”
“Sounds fair.” Her lips twitched and she realized she was still smiling.
He was still staring at her smile.
She found herself wishing he would smile. Wishing she knew his story. Hoping his story of how he’d gotten those scars wasn’t anywhere as devastating as hers.
“Follow me, Ricka, and I’ll get you the contract.” He started down the hall.
“Fredericka,” she said, her smile fading.
“You don’t look like a Fredericka. I like Ricka.”
“But I don’t,” she said, her tone serious.
He paused and looked over his right shoulder at her. “Why?”
Because the man who called me that just died last week. Because that name reminds me of the good, the bad, and the evil that came with it. “What if I called you Bran?”
“Deal.” He turned and commenced down the hall.
“What deal?” She stared at his shoulders, held tight and proud. She liked how he carried himself.
“You call me anything you want, and I’ll do the same, Ricka.”
“Okay, asshole,” she said before she could stop herself.
He laughed.
She started to tell him she hadn’t meant it to be funny, but realized she was smiling. It was his laugh. It sounded almost musical. She found herself wishing she’d seen his face when he’d done it. Damn this guy was a mystery.
She stepped a little closer, hoping to catch his scent again. Her gaze locked on the dark brown curls that hung just a little long and brushed against the collar of his light blue shirt. Practically mesmerized at how soft his hair looked, she didn’t realize he’d stopped. Or she didn’t until she walked right into him.
Her breasts came against his shoulder blades, and her hand automatically came around his waist. A spark of something sweet hit when their bodies came in contact. The kind of sweetness that made her feel small against his large frame. The kind that made her wish she’d put on a little makeup, and done something special with her hair.
Her breath caught. Attraction. But holy hell, she was attracted to a human. Or at least someone who was mostly a human.
“Sorry.” She stepped back, but not before she heard his breath catch or before she took in a nose full of air. He smelled like raw wood, like outdoors, he smelled … good.
He moved into a small office, pulled a contract out of a drawer, then dropped into a chair. His butt had barely landed when he swiveled the chair to the left, giving her his right side. Did he do it automatically? Or was he more self-conscious because he thought she’d been staring at his scars?
He pushed the paper and a pen to her. She dropped into the chair and pulled the paper closer to read it. It was simple and short.
She signed it. And filled out the request for information. And when she looked up she realized she was smiling again. I think you’re worth more than that.
His earlier words moved around in her head, leaving a trail of something sweet in their wake. Was it sad that it had meant so much?
Probably, but she’d take it.
He ran his fingers over the edge of the desk. “I guess I’ll see you in two weeks.”
Two weeks seemed like a short time for her to get three more jewelry sets made, but it suddenly seemed like too long of a time before … before seeing him again. Before peeling off the layers of Brandon Hart and discovering his secrets. And for some unknown reason, she really wanted to know his secrets.
She heard the seconds tick by on some clock close by. And with every tick marking time, the more awkward it became. Him. Her. Staring at each other.
Her phone dinged with another incoming text. She remembered Cary, but he didn’t feel so important right now.
“I look forward to working with you,” Brandon said and that sounded like a send-off.
She nodded, got up, got all the way to the door, then couldn’t help it. She looked back. This time he was the one caught staring. At her butt.
He lifted his gaze, and a touch of boy guilt—the look good guys got when they were caught checking you out—flashed in his eyes. He continued to gaze into her eyes, but he still kept his left cheek turned just so she wouldn’t see his scar. Somehow she wanted to convince him he didn’t have to hide from her.
“You need something else?” he asked.
Yeah, answers. Lots of answers.
She should leave. Go while the getting was good. But damn it. Instead, she turned completely around and faced him. “Could you use some help getting the place ready?”
He picked up the pen, clicked it once, and hesitated. “I … I don’t have the funds to pay right now.”
“I didn’t ask you to pay me.”
He still hesitated and clicked the pen one more time.
Afraid he was going to turn her down, she spoke up. “I’ll see you tomorrow around ten.” She took off feeling the buzz of excitement and clueless as to where she’d gotten the gumption to push, but somehow proud that she had.
As she stepped out of the hall, she heard the musical sound of the chimes playing.
Moving quickly, she collected her jewelry, storing it in the suitcase, fearing he was going to come out and shoot down her plan.
Finished in less than a minute, she picked up her case. The chimes were still playing. Glancing over at them, she saw them moving back and forth, yet a cold stillness seemed to fill the room. She cut her eyes up to the ceiling, thinking a vent must be pushing in cold air, but there wasn’t any vent. There wasn’t any air flowing, but the chimes shifted gently and played a song.
As she moved closer to the door, she looked back over her shoulder toward the hall leading to the other side of the house, half expecting to see his sister. She wasn’t there, but her were sixth sense said someone was watching.
“Bye,” she called out as she walked out the door.
“Later,” she heard him say.
She got into Holiday’s silver Honda, still feeling as if someone watched.
Starting the car, she put it in reverse. Her tires crunched on the gravel and she backed out of the driveway. She was putting the car in drive when she spotted Linda, Brandon’s sister, standing at the side of the house staring down at the small unkempt flower bed. Fredericka waved but Linda didn’t see her. She started forward, right as a cop car pulled into the house’s driveway.
She inched away slowly, slow enough to see the two uniformed cops walk up to Brandon’s door and knock. Slow enough to see him open the door. Slow enough to see his devastated expression.
Was Brandon Hart in some kind of trouble?
Chapter Four
“I got it.” Fredericka walked into the office to drop off the car keys before she went to work on her jewelry.
“I knew you would.” Holiday smiled.
Fredericka inhaled, not wanting to think about yesterday—about Marissa, her father, or even Cary. But from the moment she’d pulled into the parking lot, the joy she’d found at the gallery had been leaking out of her. And the pain that was her past was slowly filling her soul.
For years, she’d kept that pain buried; why did it have to rear its ugly head? Especially now, when she’d finally taken a step to building her own way in this world.
“Have you ever met Brandon Hart, the guy opening the gallery?” Fredericka dropped down in the chair.
Holiday shook her head. “No. From what I heard, he just got into town about a month ago. Why?”
“It’s just…” She didn’t want to tell Holiday she found him fascinating, because Holiday knew she’d also found Cary fascinating. “Brandon’s scent was … human, but maybe not all human.”
Holiday appeared to be surprised, and sat back in her chair. “What did his pattern tell you?”
“He wore a baseball cap.” Fredericka almost told her about the cops showing up, but was afraid Holiday would have concerns about her working with him. And Fredericka’s gut said that Brandon wasn’t bad. There were all sorts of reasons the cops could have shown up.
She just couldn’t think of one right now.