Once inside, he went to his “den,” a round-shaped room on the bottom floor of the house with windows all the way around. There was a fireplace there for when it was cold or damp, as it had often been during the end of the winter when he’d moved in. A huge bookcase was near the door, the shelves jammed with a mixture of keepers, books on writing and stories he had yet to read. The furniture was heavy and well-cushioned, perfect for curling up with a book. He picked up his laptop and hit the power button, then started an internet search.
It wasn’t difficult to find her. The first hit was her website, and the second was for a gallery in Chicago. Her site had her picture on a press page, but also a catalog of her paintings. He wiped a hand over his face. She was good. Really good. The gallery page brought up a press release from a showing she’d done...nearly two years ago. He flipped back to her site. It didn’t appear to have been updated recently.
Had she not been painting all this time? Or had she been secluded away, working on something new?
Something sharp slid through him, and he recognized it as envy. He wasn’t sure he’d ever feel whole enough to write again, and his agent had got him an indefinite extension of his contract, with his publisher saying he could turn in a manuscript when he wanted. Hell, at this point his publisher had more faith in him than he did in himself. The only thing keeping him from paying back the advance and killing the deal was that he was in his thirties. What else was he going to do with his life? At least with the open contract, there was something left ahead for him. More than just picking away at his trust fund, and existing.
And here she was, with her messy hair and bright eyes and pink cheeks, living life and standing up to the ogre.
Because that was surely what he’d become, and he hated himself for it.
But he was certain he didn’t deserve any better.
He lowered the cover of the laptop and set it aside, then picked up his coffee and took a cold sip.
He’d stopped drinking. But nothing else had changed. And that scared him to death.
Jessica looked around the gardens of Jeremy and Tori’s house and let out a happy sigh. The property didn’t have the wild restlessness of the one with the lighthouse, but the scent of the ocean was strong and the burgeoning perennials added bursts of color. Tori had invited her to dinner, and now they sat outside, listening to the ocean and having tea. Tori held her three-week-old baby in her arms, the tiny bundle making small noises as she slept. Jessica held back the spurt of jealousy. She’d had a chance at a husband and family once, and had blown it. She’d been all of twenty-four and had wanted to travel and paint and not settle down yet.
He hadn’t waited. Broken heart number one.
Now she was in her thirties with no relationship on the radar. She’d started to accept that a partner and family was not in the cards for her. It seemed that everyone important in her life always picked up and left in one way or another, and after a while a heart got tired of taking all the risks and never reaping the rewards.
It didn’t stop her from getting wistful and broody around Tori’s newborn, though. And when Tori asked if she’d hold the baby while she popped inside for a light blanket, Jessica had no choice but to say yes.
Little Rose was a porcelain doll, with pale skin and thick lashes and a dusting of soft, brown hair. Her little lips sucked in and out as she slept, and she smelled like baby lotion. Jess cradled her close, looking down at her face and marveling at the feel of the warm weight in the crook of her arm. She did like babies. A lot.
When Tori came back, Jess held out her hand for the blanket, unwilling to give the baby up just yet. “She’s comfortable here and it’ll give you a break.”
“You mean I’ll get to drink my tea while it’s hot?”
Jess chuckled. “Exactly.” She tucked the crocheted blanket around the baby and leaned back in the chair. “Thank you again for asking me to dinner. The food at the inn is lovely, but a home-cooked meal was very welcome.”
“It wasn’t anything fancy.”
They’d had salad, grilled chicken and some sort of barley and vegetable side dish that had been delicious. Jeremy was now inside, catching up on some work while they enjoyed the spring evening.
“It was delicious. Besides, I was hungry. Someone made me angry today, and I went for a run on the beach after to burn off some steam.”
Tori leaned forward. “Angry? Who? Not one of the staff, I hope.”
Tori had resigned her position at the Sandpiper Resort, but she was still close with the staff and popped in on occasion to help with events or answer any questions the new assistant manager had. That was how Tori and Jess had met, and they’d ended up chatting and then sharing lunch on the resort patio.
“No, not staff. You know the lighthouse you told me about? I went to see it. Get some pictures...it’s gorgeous, just like you said. I got that tingly feeling I haven’t had in a really long time. And then the owner showed up. Man, he was a jerk.”
She expected Tori to express her own form of outrage, but instead her eyes danced. “So you met Bran.”
“You know him? Like, personally?”
“He’s Jeremy’s friend.”
Jess lifted an eyebrow. “You might have warned me. What an ogre. Hard to imagine him being friendly to anyone.”
Yet even as she said it she recalled the flash of vulnerability in his eyes. And while his hair was in major need of a haircut, it had been thick and wavy, a rich brown tossed by the sea breeze. Roguish.
“Bran’s been through a lot. He just moved here in February, too. The house is lovely, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t get to see much of anything. I took some pictures of the lighthouse, and then he stomped out and growled at me and made me delete all the photos I’d taken.”
Tori frowned. “He’s usually not quite that grumpy.”
“He was downright rude.” She sighed. “That lighthouse was it. I got the rush I get when I’m particularly inspired. If I could have kept one photo, I could have at least started a sketch.”
Except she did have one photo. The one she’d taken of “Bran,” now that she knew his name. Facing the ocean. She’d looked at it after her run, and had felt his loneliness.
Something else jiggled in her memory. “You said his name was Bran?”
“Short for Branson.” Tori leaned forward. “Do you want me to take her now?” She held out her hands for the baby.
“She’s asleep and fine here as long as you’re okay with it.”
“Are you kidding? When she’s sleeping I get to relax.” She sat back in her chair. “I just don’t want to take advantage.”
Jessica turned the name over and over in her mind. Branson. The dark hair, the eyes...
“Branson Black,” she said, her voice a bit breathy. “That’s him, isn’t it? The author?”
Tori frowned. “He keeps a very low profile here. No one in town really knows who he is.”
“Of course. It’d be like having Stephen King as your neighbor.”
Tori laughed. “Not quite. He’s not that famous.”
Jess tucked the blanket closer around the baby. “He’s pretty famous. And he hasn’t published anything since—”
She halted. She remembered the story now. Since his wife and infant son had died in a car crash.
It