Page 55 of Painted in Love

Fernsby’s thoughts had buzzed all night.

Clay was immersed in his relationship with the lovely Saskia. Of which Fernsby wholeheartedly approved.

But the larger question was, who exactly was Saskia Oliver?

The precise answer came to Fernsby in the sleepless hours just before dawn.

He’d gone immediately to the warehouse. After he’d served breakfast, of course. He had standards and would never leave his employer in the lurch even if he had a mission.

When he arrived, however, Saskia Oliver wasn’t there, and Clay had rushed off to some important meeting.

Bollocks.

But he knew, because he was Fernsby and knew everything, that the woman would show up sooner or later. He waited on the corner for his first sight of her, wanting to speak to her before Clay did.

There she was, almost running, head down. She would have barreled right into him if he hadn’t been so quick on his feet.

Fernsby steadied her with his hands on her shoulders. “Dear Miss Oliver. The very woman I wish to speak with.”

She tried to wrench out of his grasp, saying in a near frenzied voice, “I have to talk to Clay.”

He held tight and said to her, when she finally looked him in the eye, “I know who you are. And it’s not San Holo’s assistant.”

Her lovely mocha-with-a-hint-of-cinnamon eyes went wide, and he saw clearly what he hadn’t realized the other day. She had artist’s eyes, taking in every detail of his worn and craggy face.

He said what had to be said. “You’re San Holo.”

She didn’t gasp. She didn’t faint. But with his hands on her shoulders, he was sure he felt the flutter of her heart. “Wow,” she said. “You’re good.”

He dropped a hand to her elbow and started walking, guiding her. “Shall we have coffee and a biscuit and talk?” He smiled down at her. “Before Clay returns.”

They said nothing until they were seated inside the coffee shop, their cups on the table between them. He’d passed on the biscuits, however. They didn’t look up to snuff. Even Gabrielle’s vegan biscuits would be preferable.

The steam vented on the espresso machine, the barista yelled out names, and people talked, laughed, even shouted to be heard over everyone else.

Without even a fidget, she said, “What was my tell?”

“My dear, Clay obviously hasn’t told you that I—” He placed the tips of his fingers to his chest. “—am Fernsby. I know everything.”

Her lips twitched, not quite a smile as she waited for his answer.

“It was how you spoke of The Discus Thrower. That he glowed because he was throwing everything he was into his art. Only a true artist would have seen that.” He tapped his temple. “Though I’ll admit it took me a few days to truly comprehend. But when I coupled that with what you told Clay about what artists really need, it was obvious.” Then, because he had to give credit where credit was due, he added, “Which was all very true, my dear.”

She sipped her latte, but he knew her mind was humming, perhaps pondering how to get out of this conversation.

He couldn’t let her, so he said what he had walked all the way across town to say. “You must tell Clay.”

She dropped her head to the table with a thump, their cups bouncing. She breathed so fast he was afraid she might hyperventilate. Until she sat up again. “That’s why I came to the warehouse this morning. From the beginning, Clay has wanted to know who San Holo is. For Dylan. Because San Holo is Dylan’s idol. I decided last night that I have to tell him the truth, even if he hates me.”

“Maybe he will. Maybe he won’t. That doesn’t matter. You must tell him anyway.” Then he offered her a bit of himself. “For almost sixteen years, I have considered him one of my sons. Trust me when I say he’s a bigger man than you think.”

Then she couldn’t stop talking, throwing words at him as if they were missiles. “I’ll admit that I had major reservations about him at first, but one by one, they’ve been blown apart. He’s a better man than almost anyone else I’ve ever known.” She sighed, a painful, guttural sound. “I just don’t want him to hate me. I don’t want to see that look in his eyes when he realizes I’ve been lying to him from the start.”

Fernsby laid his hand over hers. He’d never been touchy-feely, but this young woman needed soothing. “Maybe some of what you told him has been lies, Saskia.” He used her name now, offering it as another touch of comfort. “But I don’t believe it has all been a lie.” He gave her a soft smile. He actually could smile when it was necessary. “Is it a lie when you kiss him?”

She shook her head, her silky hair falling across her shoulders. “No.”

“As I thought. But back to your main concern—will he be hurt that you have lied to him?” When she winced, he added, “I understand why you did it—I know all too well that it’s a rough world out there. Tougher on some than others.”

---