Bringing Home the Bad Boy (Second Chance #1)(47)

Speaking of, he turned his head to see her carrying a miniature tank—a freaking fish tank—loaded with supplies and things that looked like they plugged into the wall. Lyon cradled his new pet to his chest like he’d won a puppy instead.

“I can’t believe it, man.”

“Yeah, a fish,” Evan grumbled.

“Not what I meant,” Asher said, a smile clear in his voice.

Luckily, he didn’t have a chance to expound on that statement because Mrs. Anderson stepped in front of them.

She eyed a tiny gold watch—how could she see the face well enough to tell the time?—and proclaimed, “Mr. Knight, your ballad starts in thirty minutes if you’d like to tune up your guitar.”

“Shit,” Ash grumbled. “Shoot, I mean,” he corrected when she gave him the evil eye. “Yes ma’am. I’ll go uh, tune up.” He slapped Evan’s arm and said, “Drinks at Salty after.”

Salty Dog was located on the main drag in town, but they’d also set up a temporary dwelling. The tiki-hut-like structure sat apart from the rest of the festival with a sign overhead that read 21 AND OLDER, colored Japanese lanterns hanging from ropes looped around the perimeter.

“Mr. Downey, I’ve decided what I’d like for the library’s main room.”

She had, had she? He lifted his eyebrows at the petite older woman standing over him.

She blinked at him through a thick pair of trifocals. “An abstract painting.”

“Abstract,” he repeated.

“Ms. Shields said you’d paint whatever I requested.”

Yeah, well Ms. Shields tended to overpromise on occasion. He stood and smiled, palming Mrs. Anderson’s petite shoulder. To his surprise, she didn’t feel the least bit frail. There was muscle, strength under that peach blouse, making him wonder if she did bench presses when she retired for the evening.

He gestured to the painting of Mad Cow. “I don’t do abstracts, ma’am.” Unless they were done at three in the morning while he was mid-nervous-breakdown over his deceased wife. He gestured at the easel next to him. “But if Mad Cow is too… unrefined for you”—and he was—“I can paint you an owl, or maybe a fox reading a book? Foxes are trendy.”

She glared up at him, the force of her glare so much he removed his hand from her shoulder.

“I want a piece of art, not a cartoon, Mr. Downey.” She checked her tiny watch again and snapped her fingers at two young guys whose faces looked as miserable as if they were serving time rather than volunteering. “Joel and Micah. Break down this tent and put Mr. Downey’s cow painting in the silent auction section.” Then to Evan, she dipped her chin. “Art,” she said.

“Art,” he confirmed with a sigh.





CHAPTER FOURTEEN




Oh boy.

Charlie watched Evan leave the tent as two teenagers went to work dismantling it. Her hand curled around the five-gallon aquarium, her steps deliberately slowed, which meant Lyon had run ahead of her with Terror—the name he’d chosen for the fish—displayed prominently in front of him.

When she got close, she heard him saying, “… a few fish flakes twice a day or he won’t eat it and the tank will get too dirty and he’ll die.”

“Okay, bud, we’ll stick to that so that Terror won’t die.” Evan cut his eyes to Charlie, then mouthed the word “Terror?” and she knew he wasn’t upset over the whole fish thing.

“Hey, Ace,” he said when he’d ambled within arm’s reach. He relieved her of Terror’s new home, his eyes going to her mouth like he wanted to kiss her.

She wanted him to. But her eyes deliberately went to Lyon, then back to Evan in silent communication. Evan leaned close anyway and whispered, “He’s gonna see me kiss you a hundred times, Ace.” Then he brushed his lips over hers in a way that made her anticipate the next hundred times to follow. The kiss was slower and sexier than their last kiss, and she didn’t know if that was because he’d kissed her deeper and with more meaning the night in the studio, or if the kiss now was deeper and more meaningful.

She didn’t have time to figure out the answer to the quandary because Lyon shouted, “Nonna and Poppa!”

Her blood chilled.

Evan must have seen her reaction because next he said, “Relax, Charlie.” Then to Rae’s parents, he called out, “Hey, guys.”

She turned to see Patricia Mosley fawning over her grandson, wearing a flowing floral dress and flat sandals, her curves prominent but controlled. Patricia and Rae had the same light brown skin color, the same curvy, sexy, and enviable build.

Cliff’s wide hands tenderly lifted Terror to get a better look. “That is one fine fish.”

Charlie smiled at the same time her chest clutched.

She’d seen them once since Rae’s funeral. Once in four years.

After Lyon was done telling the tale of how he’d saved Terror with his Ping-Pong ball prowess, Patricia and Cliff both looked to Charlie. She felt the longing from earlier bubble over again, this time for the people who had been more like a family to her over the years than her own.

“Charlotte.” Patricia, who looked close to tears, approached, arms out, and pulled her into one of those mom hugs. The kind of hugs she used to get before her mother grew ill and too weak to tighten her arms around her.