Page 7 of Tides of Redemption
I rounded the counter as he unwrapped the painting, and my breath caught. It was Tides & Tales, but transformed by his watercolors into something magical. Golden light spilled from the windows onto rain-slicked streets, while fog crept in from the edges like a soft embrace. He’d captured exactly what Pop-Pop had always wanted—a beacon of warmth and welcome in our coastal town.
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered.
Todd beamed. “I’ve been wanting to paint it for years. The architecture, the light…” He opened his portfolio and pulled out several prints. “And I thought these might work well in the store.”
The prints were just as impressive—the sea cave at different times of day, the Pelican Point lighthouse in storm and sunshine, familiar streets and historic buildings rendered in vivid detail. They were the kind of souvenirs tourists would love, something to remember their visit to Seacliff Cove.
“We could display them near the local interest section,” Caleb suggested, his voice careful, professional. “The lighting there is perfect.”
I nodded, already calculating potential profits, how many prints I could sell, how this could save my first editions. “What are your terms?”
As we worked out the details, I kept finding my attention drawn to Caleb. His hands moved expressively as he discussed lighting arrangements. His eyes lit up when suggesting joint events. He ran his fingers across his jaw when considering display options, just like he used to do when planning art projects in college.
“We could do an opening reception,” Todd said. “Combine it with a book-signing by local authors?”
The idea was good—too good to dismiss just because working with Caleb would be…complicated. “That could work,” I said. “Two weeks?”
We hammered out the final consignment agreement. Todd would bring more paintings next week. We’d do a soft opening first, then the reception. Caleb would help with installation and promotion through the gallery’s mailing list. Todd would design a flyer, and I would use my connections to post them around town.
After Todd left, Caleb and I stood alone in the events room. The silence felt different—less guarded, more like the comfortable quiet we used to share. He moved closer to examine one of the book posters, and his amber and sandalwood cologne wrapped around me.
“Thank you,” I said before I could stop myself. “For thinking of this.”
He turned, and suddenly we were standing closer than we had since the storm. I could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the slight shadow of stubble along his jaw. Neither of us stepped back.
For a moment, I saw past the polished gallery director to the passionate artist I’d fallen in love with—the one who had always had another idea, another dream, another way to make things better.
My heart pounded as the moment stretched between us, full of possibility and danger. Finally, I broke eye contact and stepped away, but something had shifted. The walls I’d built so carefully felt just a little less solid.
“I’ll bring some track lighting estimates tomorrow?” His voice was soft, almost hesitant.
“That would be good.” I fought to keep my tone professional. “Lunchtime?”
He nodded and handed me his business card. Our fingers brushed, and electricity shot up my arm. From his sharp intake of breath, I knew he felt it, too.
I watched him leave, the bell’s chime echoing in the empty store. My skin still tingled where we’d touched. I remembered how it felt to be held by him during the storm, to be understood by him.
Maybe some walls were meant to come down slowly.
But as I locked up for the night, I couldn’t decide if that thought was comforting or terrifying.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mason
The tangy scent of fresh paint still hung in the air, a crisp undertone to the familiar smells of books and old wood that defined Tides & Tales. Hands on my hips, I surveyed the transformation of the events room. Two weeks of late nights and early mornings had paid off. The warm white track lighting I’d installed highlighted the newly painted soft white walls and created the perfect backdrop for Todd’s artwork leaning carefully against the far wall.
It had been a busy two weeks. I’d worked more hours covering Emma’s shifts. And Caleb… Caleb had stopped by every day despite his busy schedule with the Beaumont show. Sometimes with a latte, sometimes with pastries from The Coffee Cove, sometimes just to check on the progress of the room. Each visit made it harder to maintain my professional distance, especially when he remembered I loved chocolate croissants or brought my favorite panini.
The bell above the door chimed, and once again, my heart stuttered. Right on time.
“Morning,” Caleb called, his footsteps approaching the events room. When he appeared in the doorway, my breathhitched. Gone was the formal gallery director in his tailored suits. Instead, he wore faded jeans and a soft gray cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed up, revealing forearms lightly dusted with hair. Somehow, this casual version of Caleb was even more dangerous to my composure.
“Morning,” I managed, busying myself with a ladder. “I got everything ready.”
“This looks amazing, Mason.” He walked into the room, looking up at the lighting, his fingers brushing against the dried paint. “You’ve been working hard.”
“Just needed a refresh.” I shrugged, though my chest warmed at his praise.
