“But are you okay?” I ask her, because I saw the way that dude grabbed her. It was done violently. Man, what I wouldn’t give to have kicked the shit out of him. Hearing the despondency in her voice, though, maybe an ass kicking wasn’t good enough.
Jane lifts a shaky hand and tucks her hair behind her ear. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
Jane’s dark-haired friend comes out of from behind the table. When she sees the painting, she coos, “Oh, honey… I’m so sorry. That motherfucking asshole.”
I don’t know this woman, but I really do like her. Couldn’t agree with her more.
“It’s no biggie,” Jane says, but the tone of her voice says otherwise. She’s devastated her work is ruined. “I think we should get packed up and call it a day, Miranda.”
She doesn’t spare me another glance, just turns to the table and tosses the painting on top of it next to the easel it had been setting on. My gaze goes to a white index card sitting there with the price of three hundred and fifty dollars.
Renewed rage sweeps through me as I realize that motherfucker not only hurt her feelings and her arm, but he just fucking hurt her livelihood with his malicious actions. I have to fight the urge not to track him down and give him a taste of my brand of justice.
Instead, I set my grocery bag down on the table beside the painting and reach into my back pocket to fish out my wallet. I open it up and flip through the cash, pulling out four one-hundred dollar bills. While this painting is a luxury I would not normally buy, particularly not in my immediate past life, it is certainly one I can easily afford. I was paid very well by the ATF while I was undercover, and every bit of that money was socked away into savings.
“I’ll take the painting,” I say gruffly as I set the cash down on the table and pick up the framed watercolor.
Jane spins around, her eyes wide with surprise. Her gaze flicks down to the cash, up to the painting in my hand, and finally up to meet mine. “Absolutely not. No way. It’s ruined.”
“It’s got a little dirt on it,” I say in a brush-off.
“It’s got dirt on it and a hole in it,” she grits out.
“It gives it character,” I tell her with a shrug as I look down at the painting in my hands. It really is beautiful despite the dirt and hole, and besides… looking at it will remind me of the satisfaction I had by nearly crushing that guy’s windpipe.
“Kyle,” Jane says in exasperation. “It’s ridiculous for you to spend money on a ruined painting.”
I’m not going to sit around and argue with her. However, I do get the distinct impression that despite how sweet and bubbly she is most of the time, she’d be a hellion to argue with if she really got mad. On top of that, I had no intentions of crossing paths with Jane again, and this certainly went against said intentions.
I tuck the painting under my arm, grab my groceries, and turn away from her booth to cross back over to the other side of Main Street.
“Wait,” she calls out.
I stop and look back over my shoulder at her.
“I need to get your change,” she huffs at me in exasperation.
“Keep it,” I tell her, to which I immediately get an eye roll back.
I turn my back on her again and cross the street. She calls out after me again, “Kyle… seriously… it isn’t right for me to take this.”
I don’t respond, and I don’t look back.
CHAPTER 8
Jane
I don’t even bother to unload my car. I leave the leftover paintings I hadn’t sold and my pride sitting in there. Instead, all I take is my purse and the six pack of beer I’d picked up at Ernie’s Grab-N-Go three minutes ago.
My driveway runs east along the side of my house, so after I close my door and lock it, I walk straight past my house and across my front yard. I cross over Cranberry Lane and enter Kyle’s front yard.
But I don’t go up to his front porch. I walk along the side of his little cottage, past the walkway that veers off to the right that leads to the lighthouse door. Before turning left to walk up his back porch steps, I notice that the flowers he planted the other day look really nice. At the top of the porch, he has a small, round wooden table flanked by two Adirondack chairs that face out toward the Atlantic Ocean.
Perfect.
I set my purse down on the porch, the beer on the table, and smooth my hands over my hair. I’d worn a summer dress to the festival today. I paired it with my standard white cardigan, which is appreciated right this moment as a chilly evening breeze is coming off the ocean.
Reaching an arm out, I sharply knock on his back screen door, then immediately clasp my hands behind my back to wait for him.
I hear movement inside and can see his form moving toward the door through the sheer curtain that covers the glass panes. Just like when I disturbed him a few mornings ago with my water pipe catastrophe, he answers without a shirt but in those really, really great-fitting jeans.