Page 16 of Tides of Redemption
My phone chimed again. Another text from Caleb:I have something important to talk to you about. When you’re feeling better.
Of course he did. The job offer, no doubt. My hand tightened around the wineglass. I couldn’t bear to hear him tell me he was leaving, to see the excitement in his eyes about returningto Paris. I couldn’t pretend I was happy for him while my heart shattered all over again.
I’d done that once before. “Follow your dreams,” I’d told him, meaning it even though it broke me. I’d loved him enough to let him go, to put his happiness before mine.
But I couldn’t do it twice.
The realization settled over me with surprising clarity. I wouldn’t stop him from taking the job—I still wanted his happiness—but this time, I would protect myself. No more intimate series binges. No more shared meals. No more kisses that felt like promises that would be broken. I’d maintain professional courtesy for our business relationship, nothing more, until…until what? Until he left? Or until he proved beyond any doubt that he was staying?
Sleep came fitfully, fragments of dreams mixing with memories. Caleb in college, laughing as he sketched me reading. Caleb in the storm-darkened apartment, his arms around me. Caleb walking away, his silhouette growing smaller until it disappeared entirely.
Morning arrived with steel-gray light filtering through my blinds. My head throbbed slightly from the wine and lack of sleep, but my resolve had only strengthened. I dressed carefully, choosing a button-down and khakis rather than the jeans I’d taken to wearing lately. Armor, of a sort.
The routine of opening the bookstore soothed me—checking the register, powering up the computer, straightening already-neat displays. I flipped the sign toOpenprecisely at ten, knowing what would come next. And right on cue, Caleb appeared through the front door, two coffee cups in hand and a smile that faltered slightly when he saw my expression.
“Morning.” He held out my cup. “Feeling better?”
I accepted the coffee with a polite smile that I didn’t allow to reach my eyes. “Much, thanks.”
The lie tasted sour on my tongue. Every cell in my body yearned to step closer, to feel his arms around me, to brush my lips against his. Instead, I moved behind the counter, putting physical space between us.
His brow furrowed slightly. “Mason? Is everything okay?”
“Fine.” I rearranged a display of Ethan Quinn’s bestselling thrillers that didn’t need rearranging. “Just busy. New shipment came in yesterday.”
“I can help.” He set his own coffee down and stepped toward me. When he reached for my hand, I smoothly backed away, pretending to need something from under the counter.
“Actually, I need to handle some inventory in the back,” I said, not meeting his eyes. “Thanks for the coffee.”
I retreated to the storeroom before he could respond, leaning against the closed door as my pulse calmed. This was necessary, I reminded myself. Self-preservation. I couldn’t survive having my heart broken by the same man twice.
Through the door, I heard the bells chime as Caleb left. Only then did I allow myself a shaky breath, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes to stop the burning sensation.
This was how it had to be. I would keep my distance, guard my heart, and prepare myself for the inevitable. Because no matter how much I wanted to believe otherwise, the evidence was clear: when opportunity called, Caleb Sullivan answered.
And I would be left behind again, picking up the pieces of a heart I’d foolishly handed over twice.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Caleb
Seacliff Cove basked in perfect late-morning light, the kind photographers chased for years. Inside the gallery, I sat alone at my desk, staring at Fontaine’s emailed offer for the hundredth time, the words glaring at me.
Five days. It had been five days since that call, and I was no closer to an answer. The gallery was officially closed on Mondays, but I’d come in anyway, desperate for distraction. I couldn’t concentrate, though. Exhibition catalogs lay scattered across my desk, inventory sheets remained half-completed, and the year’s schedule was abandoned mid-plan.
My phone glowed with Mary Anne’s frustrating response to my request for a call:Spotty cell service. Can talk when back next week. Margaritas on the beach!
Next week would be too late. Fontaine wanted an answer in nine days. My sabbatical would end in five months. The walls of my carefully constructed life were closing in, suffocating me.
But worst of all—Mason wouldn’t look me in the eye anymore.
For five days, he’d been polite, professional, and completely unreachable. His smile never quite touched his eyes. He foundreasons to step away whenever I came close. Our conversations, once flowing and intimate, had become a series of clipped sentences about inventory and exhibition promotion. The distance between us felt vast and grew wider by the day.
I’d tried everything. Coffee deliveries he accepted with mechanical thanks. Text messages answered hours later with single words. Dropping by the bookstore only to be told he was busy with paperwork. Each rejection, however politely delivered, cut deeper than the last.
He wouldn’t talk to me.
I closed my laptop, unable to face Fontaine’s email any longer. This was impossible. The position at the Louvre had been my dream for years. The connections, the prestige, the ability to shape one of the world’s greatest collections of art.
