The day was going to be long, but I couldn’t help but take a second to admire her, the only work of art I cared about right now. Despite the week and the horrors she’d endured, she still managed to express herself through her clothes. It was something I’d admired about her from the start. Her walls were high, but her personality was desperate to show itself to the world. The only way she could do that was through the fabric she put on her body. To me, she was a walking painting, an ever-changing work of art that could never be confined to a singular space. Margo Bennett was the kind of woman a man showed off, worshipped, and savored.
She deserved so much more and nothing less.
Last night, as she sat across from me, knees to her chest, eyes on the floor, telling me about her childhood and her ex, I was angry. Furious at the world for letting something so beautiful be treated that way, for forcing her to claw her way out of a grave not intended for her.
My eyes dropped to her Doc Marten boots, her usual during the cold weather, and trailed up her sheer black polka-dot tights, her black jean skirt, and the oversized gray concert T-shirt, fishnets covering her arms. Unlike all her other band tees, this one was new—fresh. This past summer, she, Carrie, and Sarah had attended a metal concert in Seattle.That must have been the band she’d gone to see.
As she studied the painting on my wall, I studied the black flamingo on the back of her shirt, the pink petals all around its feet. “Who’s the artist? I love their style,” she murmured in wonder.
The painting was something I had commissioned last year, a silent tribute to everything I’d overcome. Dominic thought it would be helpful. Most days, I couldn’t bear to look at it. On the days when I had the balls to, all I felt was shame. Hearing the awe in Margo’s voice jarred me. “Abbie painted that,” I told her,looking up at the piece, taking in the elegant brush strokes, the blues and grays of the C-17 and how they contrasted against the oranges and yellows of the sunset behind it.
I waited for the shame to come, holding my breath.
It never came.
“Abbie?” she parroted, turning around to face me. “Hallow Ranch Abbie?”
I nodded, meeting her eyes again. “The one and only.”
Abbie Spears was not only one of the best investigative journalists on this side of the country, but she was a master of painting. In Carrie and Grayson’s home, there was a stunning piece Abbie had done of a pink sunset dotted with seagull silhouettes that hung in their entryway, commissioned by Sarah and Michael when they decided to sell Blue Beauty.
“Wow,” she breathed.
My heart flinched, unable to handle her admiration of my memory. She was silent, staring at me now, waiting for me to give her more. She’d given me so much last night. I could give her this. “I had her recreate a photo a loadmaster took during a training flight over the Florida Keys.”
That had been a good day. One of the best days of my Air Force career.
“It’s beautiful. Was that the kind of plane you flew?”
My jaw tightened as I looked back to the painting, letting myself feel the emotions it brought about inside me. Still, the ugly face of shame had yet to show itself. “One of them, yes.”
She gave me a smirk that nearly brought me to my knees. “That’s really cool, Top Gun.”
My lips twitched. “So it’s Top Gun today?”
“For now. Your nickname changes from moment to moment some days.”
Out of three she’d decided to bless me with, I only had one favorite. “Grayson should be in here in a few minutes,” I said, changing the subject.
She was taking in my dark office furniture, the cold clean lines, studying all of it with a curiosity that made my heart skip a beat. I watched her run her hands through her thick locks, fluffing it before tossing it back over her shoulder. It fell down her back like a waterfall of ink, and a second later, the smell of Jasmine invaded my senses.
Fucking hell.
“Are you hungry?” I asked. “Want me to order some lunch?”
“You don’t have to. I’m sure I can find something in the break room. Ash said there’s some good snacks in there.”
So damn stubborn. So damn independent.
My feet moved, taking me to her. Her chin was between my fingers in the next moment, and I tipped her head back. “Temper,” I murmured.
She blinked. “Am I not allowed to have snacks from the break room?” she shot back.
My tongue pressed into my cheek. “Ash eats all the snacks in the break room. Knowing that it’s Monday, you might have a chance at a granola bar.”
“Are Mondays granola bar days?” she quipped.
I fought a smile. “No. Ash is just a bottomless pit, and we don’t restock until Wednesday.”