Page 33 of Beautiful Exile

“Arden. Call me Arden.” The name tasted sour on my tongue because it felt like a lie. Even though it was exactly who I was now, it wasn’t who I’d been. But I sure as hell didn’t feel like a Sheridan either. Sometimes, I felt like no one at all.

“All right, Arden. Why don’t I put you on background? Nothing you say will be quoted, and I’ll make sure you aren’t in any photos,” Sam said.

He was being kind, more accepting than most reporters I came across, but I still couldn’t help the unease and anxiety. But then I thought back to my promise to myself. To live. And living meant doing things that made me happy. Like working with kids in our art program and knowing we gave them a safe place to land whenever they needed it.

My back teeth ground together as my gaze flicked to Denver. I saw pleading in his brown eyes. Even if this was partly so he could get his ego stroked, I also knew he was doing it because he cared. Because he wanted the program to succeed.

“Okay,” I muttered.

Denver rocked to the balls of his feet and clapped his hands, making countless turquoise bracelets rattle in the process. He and Lolli could go shopping together; she just went for the more bedazzled versions of his attire.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Denver hurried over to me to give me a hug but came up short at Brutus’s low growl. “Uh, I’ll just thank you from over here.”

I patted Brutus’s head. “Freund, Brutus. Freund.”

The growling instantly eased.

“Your dog speaks German?” Sam asked, his gray brows lifting.

Shit.This was why I didn’t like reporters being around. I didn’t need any information about my dog getting out. “His trainer was German,” I lied. But ole Sam would probably get even more suspicious if he knew these dogs were trained in a variety of foreign languages to keep most people from understanding their commands.

I sent Denver a pointed look.

But it was Isaiah who rescued me. “Sam, why don’t I walk youout? I know you have that interview with one of the families with kids in the afterschool program.”

“I’d love to stay for your meeting,” Sam began. “Hear about your fundraising efforts.”

“Next time,” Isaiah promised.

A time when I would be conveniently absent.

The moment Sam disappeared from sight, I whirled on Denver. “Seriously?”

His cheeks reddened. “What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal?” I asked, my frustration rising. “I told you flat out that I didn’t want to do any interviews, and you just go behind my back and ambush me?”

“Sam is here to write about the program, not you,” Denver huffed.

“Den,” Farah said, her voice completely deadpan. “You know you were hoping she would cave under pressure, and that shit isn’t cool.”

“Farah has a point,” Isaiah agreed, crossing back through the space.

The red on Denver’s cheeks deepened. “I’m just trying to make this fundraiser a success.”

“And it will be,” I argued.

“But think about how much bigger it could be if we got national attention,” Denver pressed.

My palms started to sweat. It was always an invisible equation. How much attention on my art was okay? How much was too much?

I’d turned down shows at some top galleries because they required me to be in attendance for the openings. It felt like giving away pieces of a dream in the quest for safety. Not that stuffy parties were my thing, but they might’ve been worth it.

“Denver’s just trying to help,” Hannah said softly. She hated when we fought, and artists could have fiery tempers.

“All I’m asking is that you give me a heads-up,” I said, pinning Denver with a hard stare.

He squeezed the back of his neck and sighed. “I’m sorry. I should’ve warned you so you could’ve avoided him.”

---