Broken Read online

  Finally, he took a step back. “Finished. What do you think?” he asked, gnawing nervously on his lip.

  I had to sit up to take it all in properly. It was breathtaking. The way he’d captured my expression was like a photograph, edited to mask any imperfections until the model had flawless skin and sparkling eyes.

  “It’s beautiful, but I don’t think I look like that. It’s too perfect.” I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Every detail was faultless.

  “Yes, you do.” He frowned. “At least, that’s how I see you.”

  I could only dream to look that good on my best day, so to think that Adam saw me that way every day made my eyes well.

  “I know it’s not a masterpiece, but it is my first portrait, so you have to give me some leeway.”

  His first portrait?

  “What about Annabel? Didn’t you paint her?”

  He shook his head as he stalked over to the bed. “No, I didn’t. She never inspired me the way you do. She never encouraged me to paint, and I’m pretty sure she never really loved me.” He kissed my forehead. “You, on the other hand, are my muse. I look at you”—he leaned forward, forcing me to lie back beneath him—“and I want to create something that is as beautiful as you are.”

  Adam lay on top of me, supporting his weight on his hands. I could see from the bulge in his jeans that he had something very specific in mind, but I also had something that I wanted to do today. I had arranged to visit a gallery in Southampton that showcased local artists and art inspired by the surrounding area. I knew Adam thought his paintings were nothing more than a hobby, but I believed they were good enough to show, and maybe sell.

  Sliding out from underneath him, I made to crawl across the bed, but he grabbed my foot, pulling me back against him.

  “Where do you think you’re going, Buttercup?” he said, chuckling.

  “I’m goin’ to get changed. I have plans for you this afternoon that involve actually leavin’ the house.” Giving Adam a quick look up and down, his shirtless torso smeared with paint, I quickly ushered him into the bathroom to get cleaned up.

  Once I heard the shower running and Adam singing to himself under the water, I fetched my camera. I had an ulterior motive for taking him to the gallery today, but I wasn’t ready to share.

  Adam’s face lit up as soon as we stopped in front of the gallery. Being winter, there were parking spots to spare, the streets almost deserted. The curator of the gallery greeted us with a warm smile and handshake, introducing himself as Dennis, before stepping back to allow us some space to peruse the paintings on show. Slowly meandering through the gallery, my eyes darted in every direction so as not to miss anything, but Adam spent time studying each piece with an artist’s eye. There were oil and watercolor pieces of varying sizes, but all of a similar theme: floral arrangements or flowers of some sort, painted by local artists.

  Adam stopped in front of one that was of a field of lavender, the details of each flower only evident from close range.

  “This is magnificent,” he murmured to himself.

  “Hmm,” I mumbled, continuing my search for something that appealed to me.

  As I rounded a corner and entered another room, the art changed. Now this was more like it. As I gazed at a large oil painting on the far wall, I felt a sense of déjà vu. It was of the view from my bedroom window, painted at a slightly different angle, of the lighthouse and beach in summer. Smiling, I did a slow three-hundred-sixty-degree turn. Every piece in this particular room was of the beach, or lighthouse, or a boat on the water. And Adam’s were just as good, if not better.

  Finally Adam caught up to me, wrapping his arms around me from behind and pulling me close to his chest.

  “Your paintin’s would sit among these quite nicely,” I told him, looking around the room.

  “Mine are nowhere near this good, baby. But thank you for saying that.”

  I wondered.

  While Adam spent time studying each piece, I went to find Dennis. “I was wonderin’ if you would be interested in takin’ a few of these on consignment?” I asked, scrolling through the photos I’d taken of Adam’s paintings. “My boyfriend’s the artist, but he doesn’t think they’re good enough to sell.”

  Dennis took the camera, zooming in and out on each shot to get a better look. “These are wonderful. I’m sure we could sell a few.”

  I beamed, trying to contain my excitement and remain professional. We were just looking at the last of the photos when Adam found us again.

  “What are you…” He draped his arm over my shoulder and looked down to see the photo of the alcove on my camera. “Evie.” His voice was stern, but the glint in his eye told me I wasn’t really in trouble for overstepping a boundary.

  “I thought I’d show Dennis some of your work, just for a second opinion, seein’ as you don’t believe me when I tell you how talented you are.”

  “They are balanced, and realistic. The mood and flow you’ve captured is quite astounding,” Dennis chimed in. “I’d love to take a few pieces to display and possibly sell if you’re interested.”

  Adam laughed, as if he thought this was a setup and he was being Punk’d. But this was no setup; this was me trying to help him realize a dream, and in the process make a name for himself and leave a legacy that people could enjoy for years to come.

  So it was settled. Dennis chose a few pieces that caught his eye from the photos, and we agreed to drop them off the following day so he could see them in the flesh. By the time we left, I was beaming, feeling very happy with myself. Adam, on the other hand, was practically floating out the door, his face reminiscent of that of a child on Christmas morning.

  WEEK EIGHT

  ADAM WALKER—JOURNAL ENTRY

  Evie is so fucking amazing. I can’t stop smiling. She has so much faith in me, enough for the both of us, and it fills me with peace and excitement all at the same time. My paintings are going to be displayed and for sale in a gallery. It’s still like a dream, and I owe it all to her—my angel. I wish I could tell her just how much she has changed my life, but that would mean letting her into the darkness that overshadowed me when I first arrived at the Hamptons, and telling her why I felt there was no hope for me. I can’t do that. It would change how she looks at me, I know it would. To know I was so close to throwing in the towel.

  EVIE RIVERS

  There was cause for celebration, and I wanted to make as much of a fuss over Adam as I could. He’d been so supportive of my writing. Whether it was leaving me in peace when I needed to focus, or reading and making suggestions, or acting out certain scenes so I could get them clear in my head, he had been there every step of the way. Now it was my turn to be there for him while he basked in the light, his smile beaming as he picked through his artwork for the pieces Dennis had asked for.

  “I’m takin’ ya out for dinner to celebrate,” I told him, sitting on the floor as he pulled a lighthouse painting from the stack.

  “You don’t have to do that,” he said, smiling, his eyes shining brighter than I’d ever seen them do before.

  It made me teary and proud that Adam had progressed from turning the easel to the corner to hide his work, to agreeing to have it displayed in a gallery for everyone to see. And he was so deserving; he poured his heart into every painting. His interpretation of the area, in my opinion, was magnificent.

  Crawling over to where he was kneeling, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and nuzzled his neck. “I’m so proud of you, babe.”

  His arms squeezed me tight. The warmth radiating from him was more than mere body heat. It was like protective wings embracing me, and I’d never felt so loved and safe in all my life.

  The little winery in Sagaponack was like something straight out of a fairy tale. As we were shown to our table for dinner, I gasped at the sight of the twinkling lights that were woven between the grape vines. It made me want to go out there, running between the rows of lights to the hidden treasures at the end of the field. In summer it wou
ld have been breathtaking to sit outside on the veranda, but in winter I was happy to sit inside by the window and gaze out.

  The menu was simple but the food well presented, and as Adam and I talked animatedly throughout the evening, it really did feel like we were a real couple on a date. I could almost forget that we only had five days left together before we had to part.

  We had both come here for eight weeks. Eight weeks for me to write a novel I could be proud of, and for Adam to paint and relax.

  I had emailed my manuscript to Angie that morning, so it was now out of my hands. No more tweaks and edits; the story was completed as far as I was concerned. It was just another reminder that our time was coming to an end.

  Holding up my champagne flute, I looked across the table into Adam’s eyes. It was extraordinary to look at someone and feel as if you were in exactly the right place, at precisely the right time. His smile was slow and sexy as his eyes caressed the curves of my cheeks, then ran down to my cleavage.

  “That’s my favorite top you’re wearing,” he said, his eyes still focused on my boobs.

  “Is it really?”

  He nodded, finally lifting his gaze back to my face. “You wore it the first day I met you.” He sat back in his chair, a smug grin on his face. “I went home to get dressed, because I was only wrapped in a towel, and when I came back you’d gotten all dolled up.”

  I laughed. “Dolled up?”

  “Yep.” He sipped his wine, before swirling it around in the glass. “You’d gotten changed and all dressed up for me.” He leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand, his eyes blazing through me. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you. I still can’t.”

  “Well, I haven’t been able to take mine off you either. You know my book would have been finished a lot sooner if you’d put more clothes on, instead of paradin’ ’round shirtless and in those ripped paintin’ jeans.” I smirked as he burst out laughing. “Or if you at least didn’t insist on goin’ commando.”

  “How do you know I was painting commando?” He chuckled.

  “Hmm, well there’s a rip in those jeans that runs right across your ass.” I jiggled my eyebrows at him.

  He frowned. “I don’t recall my arse hanging out of those jeans.”

  “Well…I may have made the rip a little bigger with scissors, but it was there to start with, I swear.”

  He threw his head back, a deep husky laugh erupting from within. “Oh my God, you cut the arse out.”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t cut a hole in the front.”

  Our eyes met for a split second before we both burst out laughing, making the other diners in the restaurant stop what they were doing and stare.

  “Geez, I’m going to miss you, Evie.” He reached out, taking my hand from across the table.

  Immediately my eyes welled, but I did my best to blink the tears away. This dinner was to celebrate Adam’s art being displayed in the gallery; it wasn’t a time to be turning into a blubbering mess.

  “I’d like to propose a toast.” I held up my glass. “To your success as an artist. I knew there was somethin’ special ’bout your work the moment I laid eyes on it.”

  Adam raised his glass, gently tapping it to mine. “I doubt anyone will buy it, but just to have it hanging on display is more than I ever thought possible. So thank you for believing in me.”

  We sipped our drinks, watching each other over the rims of the glasses. “You know you said you don’t have any legacy to leave behind, nothin’ to be remembered by?”

  Adam nodded.

  “That’s not true. You have your art. It’ll be bought and admired for years and years to come.”

  “Maybe.” He smiled, the thought obviously appealing to him.

  “And I’ll remember you,” I said softly.

  I had said it to be reassuring. What I didn’t expect was Adam’s eyes to mist over, until he had to look away and discreetly brush away a stray tear. He turned back to look at me with tear-filled eyes, swallowing hard to push the emotion down.

  “Thank you,” he croaked, then wiped his eyes quickly. “Ah fuck, baby, I’m sorry.” He chuckled. “Don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  But I knew, because I felt like bursting into tears every time I looked at Adam and thought about how much I would miss the face that I loved.

  There were three days left, and as much as I tried, I couldn’t help counting down the days and sometimes hours in my head. I tried my hardest to be strong and stay happy and lighthearted, but there was an overwhelming sadness creeping into my soul every time I thought about the end of our time together.

  But it wasn’t just me that was feeling it. The house itself seemed colder, as if it were preparing for our departure. Adam tried to stay upbeat, but as much as he was trying to put on a happy face, it was too much of a coincidence that whenever I looked at him without his knowledge, his face was drawn and sad.

  The days went by at lightning speed, as they always do when you wish you could make time stand still. Why that is, I will never understand, but in the blink of an eye another day was over, and we climbed into bed and huddled together, both knowing what the other was thinking.

  When morning eventually woke us from our slumber, we were still wrapped around each other, not having moved throughout the night from the comfort of each other’s arms. As we lay together, limbs entwined, watching the sun’s first rays light up the room, a thought popped into my head.

  “Valentine’s Day’s next week. It’s a shame we won’t be together for it.” For some reason Valentine’s was always a day that had meant a lot to me. Yes, the price of flowers would double and restaurants were booked, but it was also a day to show the one you loved just how special they were to you. It was a chance to make a fuss and spoil your significant other, or just to tell them how knowing them had changed your life and made you feel complete. But by February fourteenth, we would be thousands of miles apart and I would be alone again.

  Adam’s fingertips tickled my arm. “I know. I’ll be in England by then.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  He rolled to his side to face me. “So, seeing as you are my one and only valentine, I have already been plotting and scheming to do something special before we leave.”

  I hadn’t bought a gift for Adam, and I hoped he was thinking of a scrumptious dinner and hot sex as a way of marking the occasion.

  Eagerly I asked, “So whatcha have in store for me?”

  “I’m cooking dinner tonight for our last night here.”

  Well that was one of the two things I was hoping for. “And…there may be a few other little extras along the way.”

  I opened my mouth to ask what he had planned, but his lips meeting mine took my voice and breath away. By the time the kiss came to an end, I’d forgotten what we were talking about, but Adam’s cheeky smirk reminded me that he had put a stop to my questions in the best way possible.

  “I suggest we pack today and get ready to go,” he said, putting a damper on my mood. “That way we can enjoy the evening and not have to rush around in the morning.”

  “You sound like you’re in a hurry to get goin’ when the sun comes up. I thought we’d spend the day together tomorrow as well.” I couldn’t help the pout and whiny tone in my voice, and I kicked myself for being so clingy.

  “I can’t, baby. I have to get back to Philly and pack. I fly out tomorrow night.”

  What?

  How had I missed that? I knew he was going back to England after we left here, but the immediacy hadn’t dawned on me. Not only would we be apart by tomorrow, but also he was jumping on a plane almost straightaway.

  “When’d you book your flight?” The pitch of my voice rose as I spoke, my vision blurred, so I took a moment to take a deep calming breath.

  Adam must have noticed that I was bordering on a meltdown, which was not how either of us wanted to spend our last day together.

  “I booked it the other day. The sooner I’m over there, the better. We don’t kn
ow how long we have, so every day counts.” His gentle hand caressed my cheek. “But let’s not worry about that now. I want to focus on the time we have left; there will be time enough for tears after we leave.”

  To say I detest packing was an understatement. Even if it was to go somewhere that I was excited to visit, just the prospect of folding and sorting, then pulling everything back out to try to make it fit neatly was a chore. But to pack your bags to leave, when you didn’t want to? Well, that was a whole other issue. I didn’t want to leave this little house on the beach, and I definitely didn’t want to leave Adam, so I stalled. Folding my sweaters for the seventh time, I placed them in the suitcase, my buttercup-yellow one on top.

  “Ah, Buttercup.” Adam’s arms wrapped around my waist from behind, and his head rested on my shoulder. “I love that jumper.”

  “You can have it if ya want,” I said jokingly, taking in the frayed hem and hole in the sleeve.

  “Deal.” He reached around me and scooped it up. “I’ll give it back to you when I see you again.”

  My mouth hung open. “Are you serious? You want that ratty old thing?”

  He nodded, his eyes misting over. “It’s kind of significant don’t you agree, Buttercup?”

  I bit my lip. I knew how I was feeling about this whole separation, but it wasn’t until that moment that it dawned on me that Adam was just as emotional as I was.

  “So if you get somethin’ of mine, I get somethin’ of yours.” I scanned the room. “Of course, I’m takin’ my paintin’.”

  Adam smiled. “Of course.”

  “But I’m guessin’ you won’t be paintin’ much while you’re away.”

  He shook his head.

  “So I’d like to keep these.” Reaching into Adam’s case, which was on the bed beside mine, I pulled out his old painting jeans. “I want these. You can have ’em back when…”

  Damn! I couldn’t finish my sentence because the tears I’d been holding in came flooding down my cheeks. Adam’s arms wrapped around me, encompassing my frame until I was pressed hard against him.