Page 69 of Hard to Love
“Exactly.”
“But what do you need with a church?”
She tracked the driver’s slow, methodical movement of the tiny sanctuary with its steeply pitched roof and peeling white paint. “We’re making art out here, right?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t you think it’s a spiritual process?”
He gazed off toward the barn, rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “Guess I never thought about it that way.”
“All those years you were distanced from your family, what did you take solace in? Comfort in?”
“Besides knowing they were safe?”
She nodded, holding her breath in anticipation of his answer.
“Sending them money every month. Keeping them fed.”
Greer’s chest deflated. Why wouldn’t he admit what was so incredibly clear to her? He had the soul of an artist, but the attitude of a pragmatist. So damn good, but he could be brilliant if he’d just accept the muse inside himself. “And that’s all?”
“I don’t know what the fuck you want from me. I draw designs and I tool the leather. Both you and Delaney liked my designs. Why can’t that be enough?”
“Apparently it is for you.”
He swung around to stand in front of her, his hands braced on his hips. “But not for you. What do you want me to do, slice open a vein and use my blood as red dye?”
If he ever truly wanted to connect with people, that was precisely what he needed to do. But he was so damn closed off. His shirt sleeves were a testament to that.
“You know what happens when blood dries,” she said quietly. “It turns black.”
He hung his head and blew out a frustrated breath.
“And that’s the issue, isn’t it? You think all you have inside you is black? That if you hold back your baser drives, what you’re creating can’t possibly be accepted by other people. Alex, some of the most tortured people in history have been the most amazing artists. You can’t createanything real without experiencing pain.”
“So you’re saying those boot tops I’ve been working my ass off to carve the past few days aren’t real?” He flung out an arm in the direction of the barn. “If that’s the case, then I should just pack up my shit right now and move on.”
Greer closed in on him so that her body was an inch from his. Probably not her smartest move since his leathery scent woke up every dormant nerve in her body. She wanted him physically. But she wanted more from him emotionally. Not just a commitment to the village, maybe even to her, but a commitment to who he was at his very core. “That would be damn convenient for you, wouldn’t it? Then you wouldn’t have to stick around and push yourself.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, I need PBC’s contract. That’s the real reason I ever stepped foot in this town. And all you’ve done is dance around figuring out ways to keep me from getting what I want. You know what? I think I’m tired of playing your little games.”
She pointed in the barn’s direction. “You call that a game? Wild Card is a business that will thrive. It will put Prophecy on the map as not just the place where magic boots are made, but a place where all kinds of magic is made. And that’s your problem. You don’t believe you create magic.”
“Because prophecy boots are bullshit.”
Even though her body yearned to wrap her arms around his waist, she stepped back. Part of her wanted to absorb all that self-destructive pain inside him. But that would just leave an empty space for him to fill with more regrets, responsibility, and reclusive ways. “I really hope you change your mind about that. Because people—regular people—can see the passion in a piece of art even whenthey don’t realize that’s what they’re seeing. That’s why some people with mediocre talent are in galleries all over the world. It’s the reason some moderately talented writers are at the top of the bestseller lists. It had very little to do with execution and everything to do with intention.”
“Like you’re one to talk,” he spit out. “The woman who flits from one art form to another. You admitted you never stick with anything long enough to become more than proficient at it. You might want to look in the mirror when you’re pointing fingers about creative work.” He hitched his chin toward the Sunday haus. “You act like you’re going to build all this and it’ll somehow run itself while you go back to blowing glass or take up something else. Maybe it’ll be watercolors or macramé this time, but it’ll never fulfill you. Who’s deluding herself now?”
Was that true? Art was all she’d ever known, from watching her dad craft magic from leather and love to creating pieces her own small studio. “I’m passionate about art.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t,” he said, his tone gentler now. “But what if you’re also squandering your gift? You push your artists, just like you’re doing with me now. You ask and get them to give you their very best work. To stretch themselves to do things that scare them. But what are you doing, Greer? You’re just dabbling in being the brilliant businesswoman everyone else can clearly see you are.”
Alex had taken three strides toward the barn when Greer’s painted church wobbled on the lift. With quick reflexes, the mover stopped the machine, but the sound of cracking wood split the air and sent a shudder down Greer’s back.
She watched as if she were flipping slowly throughpicture files. Click. The steeple broke off. Click. Fell to its side. Click. Hit the black roof. Click. Slid down, taking shingles with it.
Click. Plunged into the ground, pointed side buried.
