The Art of Love (The Windswept Saga) (20 page)

“You wanted to see me?”

He glanced briefly at her with thinly disguised bewilderment.  “I left a note for you.”

She returned with a faint smile.  His eyes remained focused upon the hammer.  “You could’ve sent a text, you know.
This is the Twenty-First Century.”

Chandler pulled a nail from the pocket of his shirt and hammered it into submission.  “Too impersonal,” he replied.  “With a handwritten note, you project a lot more feeling.”

Taylor stared at him nervously.  “Are you upset?  You’re clipping all of your words.”

He laid the hammer flat in front of him and crossed his hands atop the box.  His eyes met hers cautiously.  “Imagine my surprise this morning when I received a sale notice for three paintings, to be shipped clear a
cross the country to a children’s hospital in New York.”  Both eyebrows rose as he leveled an expectant gaze her way.  “Would you know anything about that?”  His mouth quirked up in one corner, a clear sign he already knew the answer.   

Taylor exhaled an
d began to plead her defense.  “That was my pet project,” she explained without reservation.  “That’s the hospital where Riley…”  She trailed off, felt a chill come over her…but the warmth emitted by his eyes chased it away.  “They buy pieces and place them in a memorial area, a common space featuring a wide variety of art.  Professional art, folk art, even children’s paintings.”

“Sounds nice,” he said appreciatively.  “Was it difficult?”

“To get them sold?”  He nodded.  “It was just a matter of making sure the financing was there.  I know it was wrong of me to go behind your back and do it…but I figured, if the deal fell through, you’d be none the wiser.”  Something in her eyes tugged at his heart.  “Are you mad?”

He spared a grin for her and shook his head
.  “Not at all.  Just a little upset you didn’t think you could confide in me.  I know you had your reasons.  And I’m thankful.  Aside from the pieces that aren’t for sale, that’s the last of my original crop to go.  In the month you’ve been here, we cleared out my whole stock.  I’ve been working to replenish it, but it’s been slow going.”  He raised a finger and pointed it toward her.  “So if I go all crazed, starving artist on you, you only have yourself to blame.”  He face erupted into a huge grin and happy laughter echoed from inside his stomach.  “Come here,” he motioned with his head.  She leaned against the crate, carefully, and he took her hands in his.  “Might I interest you in dinner tonight, beautiful lady?”

He thought she blushed for just a
second, and maybe she did.  “How could I say no to a question like that?  Time and place?”

“The cheapest place in town,” he replied.  “I’ll cook for you.  Besides, you’ve never seen my apartment.”

A stirring of heat twisted inside her.  “Yes, that’s true.” 
And even though I want to, the thought of it scares the living shit out of me.

“You look pale all of a sudden,” he teased.  “Did I put you on the spot?”

“Um…not really.  I guess you just caught me off-guard.  My fault.  I hope crating up the paintings wasn’t too much trouble.”

“None at all.”  He offered the hammer to her.  “Wanna help?”

He held a nail in place, waited with a curious gaze.  She took it from him and smiled.  “Sure.”

***
 

“Did you lock up?  Turn out the lights?”

She adjusted the strap of her purse over her shoulder and smirked at him.  “Yes, boss.”

“Good deal.  I’ve locked the back door, too, but I’ll walk you out later.”

“Thank you.”

He nodded, smiled uneasily.  “Follow me,” he teased roguishly, “if you dare.”

She kept close to his heels as they headed upstairs, taking a few glances at his rear end.  She’d seen it before, so the only harm was in her conscience.

“Come in,” he said, extending his arm like he was a carnival barker inviting people into a tent.  “Make yourself at home.”

The space was spare and simple, and yet somehow homey.  The furniture was clean-lined, modern, but didn’t project any pretention of expense.  Across one edge of the couch was a Native American throw, and along one wall a painting of running horses.  Chandler may have lived in town now, but he’d brought the ranch along with him, just in case anyone forgot his cowboy origins.  The kitchen and dining room adjoined the living area, one huge, open space, welcoming and cozy.  She felt comfortable there immediately.

“D
oes your apartment run the entire second floor of the building?” 

“Uh-huh.”  He removed his hat and hung it beside the refrigerator.  “Hard to believe it now, but when I bought the place it was unoccupied.   They just used it for storage.”  He unbuttoned
the cuffs of his shirt, rolled the sleeves to his elbows, and washed his hands in the sink.  “It’s a great space.  Check out the view.”

Taylor moved toward his gaze and twisted the blinds open.  Spread before her was a low wall of mountains, filtered in hu
es of pink, orange, and blue as the sun set beneath the horizon.  Her jaw dropped at the intensity of feeling.  Or maybe that was Chandler’s proximity.  He’d come to stand beside her, his eyes shadowed in the space near the window.  “It’s beautiful.”

“I th
ink so.  Would you like something to drink?”

“Sure.”

“Wine okay?”

“Yeah.”

The thought of consuming alcohol, with him, was mildly disarming.  That was one thing they
hadn’t
done together prior to Mark and Christa’s dinner cum make-out session.  She watched him turn the corkscrew atop the bottle, heard the pleasing release of pressure when he removed it.  He poured the liquid into two goblets, handed her one, and then sniffed his own, reveling in the bouquet.

She clinked her glass against his.  “To us.”

He smiled sweetly, his seductive eyes betraying the innocence of the expression.  “To us.”

She watched as he pre-heated the oven and placed a full pot of water atop one burner.  He then pulled a baguette from some previously unseen place and deftly sliced it
in half.  He melted butter and spread it evenly across each piece before placing it atop the sheet and finally in the oven.  “Is that homemade?” she asked curiously, having just drained her glass.  Oops.

He shook his head.  “There’s a great place in town t
hat makes any kind of bread you can imagine.  I’ll show you sometime.”  He sipped from his glass, let his eyes drift over to her.  “More wine?”

“Please.”  He poured more for her and turned his attention to the cabinets.  He dumped an entire box of penne pa
sta in the boiling water and smiled at her in between his work.  Next he removed a jar of white sauce from the fridge and a bag of chicken from the freezer.

“I hope it’s okay that I didn’t make the sauce myself,” he apologized in a low voice.  “It’s from B
ryn’s kitchen so I promise it tastes pretty damned great.”

She nodded while leaning against the island.  It was a solid barrier between them, but slight within the confines of her own mind.  “It’s fine.  I used her cookbooks all the time back in New York.”

He spooned the sauce into a pan over low heat.  “Did you tell him about us?  Your husband, I mean.  Not everyone wants to know the personal histories of their lovers, but some do.”  He glanced at her over his shoulder, awaiting her reply.  Maybe he didn’t want to hear it.  Or maybe anything that passed across her lips would be like silk to his ears.

“I told him about you, Chandler.  I had no secrets from Liam.  I was an open book.”  Her voice trailed off and her mouth formed a frown.  “Until the end, that
is.”  The smile she formed next was disingenuous, but he would be the last person to accuse her outright of lying.  “It’s funny how we both wound up in New York, after I had such…different conclusions in my mind.”

“Serendipity,” he mused.

“Did you like it there?”

He was facing the wall again, watching his pasta boil.  Thus, when he lifted an eyebrow, it remained unseen.  “I loved it.  There was
always something to do, another museum to visit, another scene to paint.  I never really got tired of it.”

“You mu
st’ve stood out,” she assumed.  “Then again, you always could turn heads.”

He replied with a small laugh.  “If I ever made you feel jealous…”

“You didn’t,” she said quickly, cutting him off.  She watched the back of his neck pulse and knot in waves of tension.  His shoulders went slack and she let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding in.  “What happened to you after college?”

He placed a colander in the sink and dumped the pasta into it, careful to avoid a face-full of steam.  “I went to Europe a
fter that.  I was there for…a while.”

“Backpacking?” she teased.

“Not exactly.”  He added the pasta and chicken to the warming sauce.  The sun was nearly down, and his blue eyes penetrated the shadows of the kitchen as he stared at her.  “I traveled from museum to museum—Amsterdam, Paris, London, and several more places—studying the art.  I wasn’t a tourist, I was a scholar.  I thoughtfully considered the paintings, examined their techniques.  Even if the art didn’t speak to me, I’d still find some appreciation for it.  Art is a universal language.  Words are different, even expressions and gestures, but the feeling you get from a piece—that doesn’t need words.”  He rested his fist atop his chest.  “You know it in here.”     

He pulled the bread from the ov
en and placed it atop a cooling rack.  “I suppose the ability to cook came in handy when you were roaming the planet by yourself.”

Chandler nodded again.  “
It was a productive time.  Also lonely.  I missed my family, but I came home for Mark and Christa’s wedding, and again when each kid was born.”

So you weren’t rudderless,
Taylor thought.  “After you were done soaking up culture, what then?”

He laughed.  “I came back stateside and went to work.  Applied for grants.  Sold paintings.  Travelled some more. 
I studied art therapy for a while but never intended to get certified.  I just wanted to work on myself, or something.  It was psychologically beneficial, and it helped…”

“With Max?”

“Yeah.”  He carried the food over to the dining table, followed by the bottle of wine.  He refilled his glass and held out her chair.  “Dinner is served.”  She sat down, marveling at how he’d prepared an entire meal and simultaneously laid out an autobiography like it was second nature.  There was no touch of bravado or boasting in his words; he spoke of his work the way any man would, explaining it in simple terms.  He sat down across from her and she continued her quest to learn more.  It was like she was delving into a novel with missing pages, a book she’d laid aside for far too long before completing the story.  “After I got done being an egghead,” he carried on without prompting, “I worked in equine therapy.  I spent some time in Kentucky.  There was a doctor who’d started a program where they used horses to treat sick kids, adults suffering from PTSD.  Cool stuff, not always tangible but the benefits were clear when you saw a person’s face after they’d made a breakthrough.”

Taylor began to eat slowly, savoring both the food and the company.  “That sounds incredible. 
And it seems like the work had a profound impact on you, just from the way you made it sound.”  He smiled gratefully at her.  “So why didn’t you stick with it?”

He shrugged, grappling within himself to come up with a valid answer.  “
Wanderlust?  I received a grant to do some Wyoming-centered art. It only made sense to come back home at that point.”  He shot her a wistful gaze.  “I was searching.  Even after I got back here, I kept looking for something to fill up the loneliness.  Does that make any sense?”

She eyed him warily atop her wine glass.
“That’s part of the reason I came home, too.  To find some way to feel again.”

“Did it work?”

“To be determined.”

He nodded, pressed his lips into a flat line.  “I was thinking about leaving again, before I bought this building.”  He swallowed hard, but t
he lump didn’t leave his throat.  “Now I’m glad I didn’t.”

Chapter 14

“That was the best meal I’ve had in a long time,” she said as Chandler loaded the dishwasher.  “But don’t tell my mom I said that
.”

“Don’t tell Miss Alice that I’m a better cook than
she is.”  They shared a laugh.  “Got it.”  She followed him to the couch and they sat facing one another.  The wine bottle, its contents quickly evaporating, was situated on the coffee table.  Aside from a task light over the kitchen counter and a small lamp, they were seated in darkness.  Even in the shadows, though, her green eyes haunted him.  An unasked question lingered upon his lips, but he wasn’t sure if either of them were ready for that.  This thing was still too new, unconstrained by commitment.  Or maybe it only felt that way.