Page 77 of Hidden Memories

I drum my fingers on my purse, the three flash drives tucked into it practically buzzing with questions. Santi and I never finished our conversation about the drives. Theo’s nightmare had pulled me away. When the adrenaline wore off, I crashed, and Santi must have gone downstairs. Of course he was gone in themorning.

Because that’s the era we’re in now. We leave things unfinished. Conversations. Kisses.Us.

Maybe that’s why I stayed in bed longer than I needed to. If I went downstairs and he was still there, I might have said something reckless.

What could be on those drives? At best I hoped they had precious family photos, at worst I figured they’d be inappropriate snaps of women Nic probably had behind my back. I guess the other photos in the box had me assuming the drives were pictures, but it could be anything.

Could that be why someone has been breaking in? If they wanted valuables, why not take anything? The farmhouse was ransacked, but nothing was missing. The trap at Heritage—was that meant to scare me? Force my hand? What happens when they decide scaring me isn’t enough?

My pulse thrums against my throat as I glance down at my purse, where the flash drives are zipped inside. How would anyone even know I have them? And yet… there’s a prickling sensation at the back of my neck. The distinct feeling of being watched.

I scan the café, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag, half expecting to meet a stranger’s gaze. But there’s nothing. Still, that doesn’t mean they aren’t out there.

It’s all confusing but there’s nothing that will answer this question better than seeing what’s on them. I just hope I can do it with Enzo, Ava, and CallumwithoutSanti around. It’s hard enough having him sleep half-naked, fine as hell every night on Julia’s couch, and minding my own business from upstairs.

Distance. We need physical distance.

The bell above the door chimes, sending a ripple through the quiet hum of the café.

The man who rushes in is an explosion of movement—wild, sun-streaked hair that defies gravity, skin tanned and textured like the older surfers back in Santa Cruz. He moves like he’s catching a wave, riding an invisible current that propels him toward us.

“Sorry I’m late,” he apologizes.

I can’t help but smile at his assumption and remember what Julia said about his no-clock rule. “You’re not. You’re ten minutes early. I assume you’re Arthur?”

“Ah yes.” He wipes his right hand on his pants then offers it to me. “Nice to meet you.”

We shake hands, and mine comes away with a little bit of oil paint on it. I stare at the apricot-colored blob for a brief moment like it’s a sign from Heaven.

I really can’t wait to paint today. And when I gaze back at Arthur, he has just the kind of frenetic, excited but all the same chilled energy I liked from some of the street artists in Venice Beach when I went down there one weekend with Gisele.

“Julia told me you and Theo would like an art lesson. You’re friends with Santi?”

It surprises me slightly that she mentioned it. I suppose a lot of details are shared in small towns but I’m worried people are starting to see us as an item. If the magnetism between us feels this powerful for me, I’m not sure our sexual tension is exactly discreet.

“Have you seen his art collection?” Arthur asks.

“I didn’t realize he liked art.” It’s a lie. I know damn well he did. At least, he liked mine.

The memory surfaces like a splash of color on a blank canvas—Santi lying beside me under our tree, his fingers tracing the swirl of my butterfly tattoo, the teasing lilt in his voice when he told me:One day, I’ll have your art all over me.

He still has me on him.

Maybe that’s the most dangerous part of all—knowing that no matter how much time has passed, no matter how far we tried to run from each other, there’s a part of me still etched into him. Permanently.

My stomach tightens at the thought.

I’m struggling to pay attention to Arthur as he tells me more about Santi’s collection. About how the Mendezes and the town have helped him make a living, albeit a meager one.

All I’m thinking about is my work stamped on Santi’s perfect, bronze chest and how I used to trace the black outline of his mother’s crown of flowers on his warm, balmy skin under our tree.

Arthur’s voice crystallizes again. “Santi has lots of surrealism and landscapes. Even a Georgia O’Keefe.”

“Not a real one surely?” No way he has a million-dollar painting.

He wiggles his eyebrows. “I don’t know. But heisthe kind of guy who would invest in O’Keefe.”

It’s meant to be friendly, an artist’s joke, I guess, about the speculation of O’Keefe’s works resembling lady bits, meaning Santi is the kind of man who would want to be surrounded by vaginas.

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