“It could be,” he countered. “We’re good together.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I can’t love you when I’m in love with somebody else.”

I carefully and quietly moved as close as I could without being seen or heard.

“Thank you for making me forget the pain for a while. But it’s not fair to you. Bye, Mark.”

She walked away from him, and when I was sure she was out of earshot, I came out of the light and faced Goya.

“You heard all of that?” he asked.

I gave an affirmative nod, trying to control the powerful desire to physically harm him, and said, “The painting of her is the best of the collection. I’m not an art aficionado, but I know when something’s good, and that portrait isn’t just good, it’s a single moment of time captured on canvas. It makes me feel a desperation for the subject, even not knowing her very well. You painted her agony.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “She didn’t see it.”

He walked past me and stopped on his way to the entrance. “Good luck with the café. That should help distract her from her…agony, for a while.”

“Mark,” I called, stopping him before he entered the building. “You are not welcome in our place of business. Do we understand each other?”

I didn’t wait for his response, since there was no mistaking that my words were not a request, but a threat. Then, I went to my car with the purpose of finding Katherine.

Katherine

I was walking.

Fresh air was good. It gave me clarity. It helped me sort my shit out. But it was hard to sort my shit out when I was seething with anger, drunk on black champagne cocktails, and bleeding from the wound Mark just gave me.

Fucking. Asshole.

The first time I ever got drunk was in the company of my lover. He poured us each a glass of red wine the night he took my virginity. And he took me as an equal.

“A woman in every way, Katherine. Your age is not indicative of the woman you already are,” he’d said to me.

I drank socially, but never wine. Wine was an association of blossoming love, and wine was reserved for him.

“We should always do this,” I’d told him. “Even when we’re old, you can be my anchor while I get tipsy.”

“I’ll always be your anchor, no matter where I am and where you are. I’ll be your constant…the compass for your heart.”

“My true north,” I joked.

“Yes,” he’d said.

He lied.

I was drunk, storming down the dark road of the canyon, and the next words from my mouth sounded crazy even to my own ears as I screamed into the night, “You ruined me, you betraying, fucking asshole!”

“Katherine,” I heard behind me and came to halt.

I didn’t answer because I was mortified. On top of everything else, there was no doubt Holst had heard me sobbing and screaming at the top of my lungs.

“What are you doing here?” my shaking voice asked over my shoulder.

I heard his steps come closer, the heat of his body against my back as his long fingers wrapped gently around each arm.

His touch…

Phenomenal.

His head bent to my ear…

Dangerous.

“Katherine.” He spoke quietly, gently, as if he was trying to calm a hysterical woman wielding a shotgun on a cheating husband. “I was invited to the exhibit. I was told you left only moments before, so I came to find you, and now I’m going to take you home.” He turned me slowly, keeping the distance between us close while I kept my head down.

“Katherine?” he asked, and I knew he wanted me to look at him. But if I did…fuck…if I did, he’d see right through me.

I kept my gaze to the ground. “I’m fine. Sorry. I’m just…a lot is happening. Tori and Cam are leaving for a few weeks. I haven’t even started working on the coffee shop with you. I’m just…”

“Come,” he said and pulled free the arm I had wrapped around my middle.

“I’m drunk,” I explained, probably unnecessarily. “I think exercise is good to prevent hangovers.”

“And food,” he added and took my hand in his, guiding me back toward the parking lot.

I recognized his car as we approached. “Just drop me home, Holst.” The fact he was still holding my hand hadn’t really kicked in until he unlocked the dark blue BMW and opened the passenger door.

“Watch your head,” he warned and kept me steady while I sank down into the cool leather seat.

Once the door was closed, he got in and completely turned his body to look at me. He leaned in, just enough that I could smell whatever scent he was wearing, and asked, “Katherine?”

“Y-yes?” I stammered.

“Seatbelt.” He smiled that perfect smile.

“Right.”

I buckled myself in when he again requested, “Katherine?” I reluctantly gave him my eyes. “I feel that, in the spirit of equality in our business, beginning that relationship on a falsehood would be bad form, and you don’t need any other reasons to hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” I interrupted, because, really, I didn’t.

“Tomorrow, when you’ve slept on it, I have no doubt you’ll find, at the very least, you don’t like me very much.”

“Can you please just tell me whatever it is you were going to tell me so we can go? I made a garlic and herb roast lamb, and I’m hungry, and it’s sounding pretty good right now.”

He turned on the car and pulled out of the space a little too quickly. Like, Formula One quickly.

“Can I ask why you’re driving like a maniac?” I was actually bracing myself with one hand on the dash, letting my purse fall to my feet, the other hand gripped onto the door handle.

“Meat,” was his one word reply.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“We need to talk. I also happen to be hungry,” he told me as he took a sharp left turn to head up Third Avenue toward my place. “And you’re going to feed me.”

I had so many ways I wanted to respond to this assertion. “It’s been a big night, and, like you said, I’m probably going to…dislike you tomorrow, so maybe we shouldn’t push it and—”

The car stopped.

He jumped out of the car and slammed his door.

My door flew open. “You know where I live.”

He offered his hand to me. “Don’t forget your purse.”

I took a deep breath, and up the stairs we went, his hand at the small of my back until I made my way to Gozer, flipped up his hat, and retrieved the house key.

“You keep your spare key in the hat of a ceramic garden gnome.” He made this as a statement, an observation, not a question.

“His name is Gozer,” I supplied. “Gozer?” I said to my fat, little friend. “This is Holst. Holst, this is Gozer, the—”

“Keymaster,” he finished.

That was the first time ever someone knew what the fuck I was talking about or didn’t laugh at me. I was so delighted by this, I let Holst know. “I’ll feed you because you knew who he was without me explaining it.”

“I appreciate that more than you can imagine. Though, I probably would have forced my way in to eat a roast.”

I opened the door and threw my purse onto the couch at my right. On my very high heels, I went to the kitchen, threw my purple wrap on the back of a chair, and opened the oven.

I’d prepared the small roast along with white baby potatoes and root vegetables in the afternoon. It had been marinating since the day before, and I had the timing down perfectly for delicious, succulent, tender meat.

“Can I do anything?” Holst offered.

“No. But you can tell me whatever it is you were going to tell me.”

I plonked the roast onto a heavy chopping board and set it in the middle of the kitchen table. I then opened the fridge, grabbed a can of Diet Coke, a random beer from Trader Joes, and the roasted veggies. I took the drinks to the table in true ex-waitress fashion, balancing everything on one arm. Then I put the veggies into the microwave. While doing all of this, I noticed that Holst had found his way around my kitchen and set the table.