Page 12 of Tracing Her Stolen Identity
“Not if I can help it,” he replied, picking up her cup and handing it to her so she didn’t have to lean forward to get it. He was always thoughtful that way, even before her accident. His friends teased him about waiting on her, but he would turn to them and say, “If you need lessons on how to treat a woman with respect, I have openings on Tuesdays and Thursdays.” That memory brought a smile to her lips that she hid behind the cup’s rim. Reece wore his confidence like a fine suit and never let anyone cut him down.
After they’d shared a few cookies, he grabbed a notepad and sat across from her. “It’s time to make that list for Mina. Someone on the team will work on it overnight and update us with anything they may find in the morning. First, we have to give them somewhere to start.”
Skylar watched him tap his pen on the notebook as though they were having a normal conversation about everyday life instead of making a list of people who hated her. Reece had always been strong, but he was never the silent type. She could see that had changed. He had changed. Some of it was growing up, but some parts seemed to come from a different place within him—from pain and anger, two things he still carried—and she could tell it was a heavy load.
“I’ve been thinking about it since Mina asked. The only serious aggravator in my life is Miles Bradshaw.”
Reece wrote the name down on the pad. “Tell me about him.”
“He’s a local artist from Duluth. You’re his competition if you color a picture on a restaurant placemat.”
“One of those, eh?” he asked with a lip tilt. “Gotta lovepeople with the ideology that the world isn’t big enough for everyone.”
“That’s Miles to a T,” she agreed, resting the coffee cup on her leg. Thankfully, he’d put it in a travel mug so it wouldn’t spill.
“What is his exact beef with you?”
“We both do mosaics,” she explained. “Miles would rather I didn’t.”
Reece rolled his eyes, bringing another smile to her lips. “I’ve seen some of your work. Your pieces are gorgeous, and they’re always so colorful.”
Her insides warmed for a moment before the meaning of the sentence struck her. “You’ve seen my work?” If that was true, that meant he had been keeping track of her all these years. When she gave him up, it had been so he would forget about her, not continue to look after her.
“Around the area,” he said vaguely. “Shops and places. They always have the artist’s name under each piece.”
That fear seeped away a little but was quickly replaced with the gnawing regret she always had in the pit of her stomach. He wasn’t seeking her out, which was what she wanted, so why did it feel so cutting to know the truth?
“That’s probably Miles’s biggest beef.” She cleared her throat when she heard the sadness in her words. “He doesn’t think my work should be in these shops. He feels it’s deceptive to the customer, despite each display fully explaining how the piece is created.”
“Because your mosaics are made from recycled glass?” he asked, and she nodded once. He must have noticed the surprise on her face. “I read the information near the display.”
“Right, well, yes. He doesn’t think I should be sellingsomething made from ‘junk,’” she said, putting junk in quotations.
“One man’s junk is another man’s treasure.” She motioned at him with one hand as she sipped her coffee. “What does he make his mosaics from?”
“Glass, but his are more—” She waved her hand while searching for the right word. “Commercialized?”
“You tell me,” he answered.
“It’s a good word. There’s nothing wrong with commercialized art, but that’s not what people look for in the shops around this area.”
“Which means yours sell because they are unique and his sit because they aren’t.”
“If you want to boil it down to one sentence, then yes, that’s accurate. Miles’s work is nice but doesn’t stand out as unique. It doesn’t scream,hang me on your wall!In fact, several of the galleries have stopped carrying his work altogether.”
“If it doesn’t sell, they’re not going to give it shelf space,” he agreed, tapping his pen on his paper.
“Correct. Especially when some of his art was proven to be manufactured.”
“As in purchased and passed off as his own?” His brow went up, and she nodded. “This was confirmed?”
“By yours truly,” she said with a grimace.
“Seriously?” When she nodded again, he leaned forward. “Has he confronted you about this?”
“Multiple times,” she agreed, recalling the last time Miles had cornered her.
“Your expression just changed. Tell me about it.”
