Page 48 of To Hold and Protect

After Carlton jogged off, Maurisa snapped on gloves. He, Tristan, and Skylar stood by while she took pictures of the inside of the car to document the scene. Once that was done, she bagged the rags soaked with gasoline, then picked up the envelope by its corner.

She glanced at Parker. “It’s got your name on it. Let’s see what it says.” She slid a finger under the flap, removed the sheet of paper, and held it up for them to read.

Fire shines a light in the darkness, but fire burns all, consumes all. Beautiful, beautiful, arousing fire. Are you having fun yet, Parker? I am...so much fun!

“Dear God,” Parker said.

“Finish up here, Maurisa.” Tristan put his hand on Parker’s shoulder. “Let’s take a walk.”

Parker swallowed hard against the bile in his throat. He hadn’t wanted to believe the fires were directed at him, but he couldn’t deny it now.

“You okay?” Tristan said after he, Parker, and Skylar were alone.

“No, I’m not okay.” What had he done to draw the attention of a person who found fires arousing and fun?

Chapter Twenty-One

“Don’t expect more from me than I have to give.”Had she asked for more? Willow wished she was wearing her cowboy boots so she could stomp her feet like a child throwing a tantrum while making a lot of noise. Parker obviously regretted their time together, considering he’d ghosted her. Four days had passed since she’d had the best sex of her life and nothing. Nada. Not a word from him.

If she were prone to being an insecure person, she’d be blaming herself. She’d be asking herself if she’d been terrible in bed. She wasn’t. It had been good between them. She hadn’t imagined that. When he hadn’t called her for the tour the next day, she’d almost gone over anyway, but had managed to stop herself. A girl had to have some pride.

The lights in his studio had burned into early mornings each night. If he wasn’t interested in continuing their fling, no problem. What she didn’t appreciate was being ghosted without knowing why. She’d thought they were on the way to being friends, with or without any sex involved. Guess not.

At least he was letting Everly come over in the afternoons. Willow was having a blast with the little girl. What a creative mind Everly had. Even if no one outside of her family would see her illustrations, Willow considered herself blessed to be in the presence of such talent. What she wouldn’t give to be around in ten or so years to see her develop that talent into something spectacular.

She glanced at the bedside clock. It was only ten, and although she’d been trying to read until she was sleepy, she finally gave up as she couldn’t concentrate because a certain someone kept invading her thoughts. She was considerably ahead in her word count goals and had thought to take the night off and read a book for a change.

Funny how spending time with Everly had stirred her creative juices on her own story. Her daily word count had almost doubled, and if that kept up, she’d finish the book a few weeks early. Since sleep was being evasive, she might as well write some more.

Thirty minutes later and almost four hundred new words on the page, her phone chimed with a text from Parker.

Tour of my studio?

He wanted to do that now? She should tell him no, considering he’d ghosted her for four days, but her curiosity wasn’t to be ignored.

Give me 20. Need to get dressed.

No you don’t (Winking emoji)

She snorted. The man was a conundrum. He could go from grouchy to sweet, to rude, to teasing faster than she could blink her eyes. It was enough to make one dizzy. Still, he fascinated her, and she really wanted to see his art, so she slipped on a sundress and a light sweater, then slid her feet into a pair of flip-flops before pulling her hair up into a ponytail. She’d already cleaned her face and put on moisturizer, so only a little lip gloss would have to do.

The studio door was open, so she walked in. Parker was standing in front of an easel, a paintbrush in his hand. She walked up next to him but didn’t say anything. He was the one who’d ignored her for four days, so he could be the one to talk.

“Oh, wow,” she gushed, her intention not to speak first forgotten when her gaze landed on the canvas.

An old man, his age-lined face full of character, and his watery blue eyes filled with longing, sat in front of a window in a blue-and-yellow plaid chair, the kind you’d see at your great-grandmother’s house. A blue afghan covered his knees and on one hand was a baseball glove, cracked with age. The scene outside the window was of a group of tween boys playing baseball in the street.

Parker didn’t have to tell her that the man was remembering being a boy, and the yearning to have those days back was there on his face and in his eyes. The painting was breathtaking, and tears stung her eyes for the man who couldn’t play ball anymore.

“Is this someone you know?” She glanced up at him to see that he was watching her.

“Norwood Cooper. My high school baseball coach’s grandfather. He came to every practice game and always had his glove with him, ready to catch any foul balls that came his way. He played high school and college baseball with that glove. He died a few months ago.”

“It’s a beautiful tribute to him. Does your show have a theme?”

“It does. Scenes Through a Window, and this one’s titledBottom of the Ninth.”

“The end of his life,” she murmured.

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