Cover

Dedication

To my son and husband who are a constant distraction.

Without you this book would have been out two months ago.

I wouldn’t change a thing.

CHAPTER 1

Francisca

I sign my name in pink paint on the bottom left corner of my canvas, then set my paintbrush down and step back from my easel, wiping my hands on my paint-covered apron. Each layer of paint on the canvas is like a snapshot of the last six weeks of my life. I can tell what kind of mood I was in each time I picked up my brush to work, pinpointing when I was happy, sad or even bored just by the heaviness of the paint strokes.

Forcing myself to look past the details that will likely go unnoticed by everyone else, I take in the painting as a whole. With raised flower petals in muted pastel colors, along with butterflies and different types of bugs hidden in the greenery as a tiny treat for anyone stopping to take a longer look, it’s beautiful. I just hope that the woman who commissioned the four-foot by six-foot painting for her granddaughter loves it as much as I do.

“What do you think?” I look down at PJ, who is lying at my feet, and he lifts his head off his paws while his tail begins to wag. “I thought you’d say that.” I laugh, squatting down to rub his spotted pink belly when he rolls onto his back.

I jump when the buzzer for my studio sounds. I look over at the clock on the wall and let out a nearly silent curse. Like what often happens when I’m working, I lost track of time. The only good thing about today is that I can’t actually be late, since the meeting I scheduled is happening right here.

Quickly taking off my apron, I toss it toward my rolling chair, then lead PJ to his kennel, and he instantly goes inside to lie down. With him tucked away, I walk across the concrete floor and pull the heavy wooden door inward.

“Hey.” I smile at Phillip, who looks—as he often does—like he’s in a bad mood.

“Francisca.” He dips his chin. “May I come in?”

“Of course.” I step back, giving him room, then close the door behind him. I’ve known Phillip, my family’s attorney, my whole life, and he’s always been very… well, I guess the only way to describe him is “formal.” The only time I ever see him let his nonexistent hair down is at my parents' annual Christmas party. One evening a year, he drinks too much eggnog and becomes a whole different person, one who has an actual personality.

“This is where you work?”

“This is it.” I wave my hand out to encompass the entirety of the space as he scans the room.

He’s never been to my studio before; not many people have. The old storage warehouse was built in the late 1800s and was part of a manufacturing company’s property. After they went out of business, it sat empty until an investor swooped in and decided to refurbish it for residential use.

The unit I’m renting is one of the largest, at a little over two thousand square feet, and has an open floor plan that was advertised as a studio apartment with a bathroom and kitchen. Personally, I would not have rented it if I had planned on living here since there is no actual bedroom. The windows at the top of the tall ceilings that let in tons of glorious natural light during the day, unfortunately, let in the same amount of light at night from the streetlamps lining the block. But the location and lighting were perfect when I thought I would only be using the space for work. Then, a few months ago, I ended up moving in here, and getting a good night’s sleep since then has been a rarity. Nevertheless, I’m making the best of it for the time being.

“Have you been staying here?” he asks with his brows knitted tightly when he sees my bed, which is half-hidden behind the stack of moving boxes I haven’t bothered unpacking.

“I have been, yes, but once the condo sells or Matthew buys me out of my half of it, I’ll move.”

“We didn’t add that into the papers you had me draw up.”

“He and I have a verbal agreement.”

“Francisca—”

“It’s fine, Phillip,” I cut him off, and he gives me a disapproving look but doesn’t say more about it. Instead, he tucks his hands into the pockets of his slacks and wanders across the room toward the painting I just finished.

“Is this your current project?”

“I actually just finished that one right before you arrived.”

“It’s beautiful. You’re very talented.”

“Thank you,” I say quietly, as the compliment seems to wrap itself around my windpipe.

When I started painting, my parents and husband thought I was wasting my time. They were sure that no one would buy pretty floral paintings. Then I sold my first piece, and my second. Soon after that, I was getting offers for commissioned pieces that cost thousands of dollars and I was able to quit my job to start painting full time. Most days, I feel like I’m living a dream because I am. Painting is something I’ve always loved doing. I just had no idea I would be able to turn it into a lucrative business.

“What time is Matthew set to arrive?”

“Any minute.” I leave him behind and walk toward my small kitchen. “Would you like something to drink?” I look at him over my shoulder as I open the fridge and catch him inspecting the paint-splattered chair he pulled out from the metal table between my work area and the kitchen.

“Water, please.”

“Flat or sparkling?”

“Flat.”

As I’m getting down two glasses from the floating shelf above the sink, the door opens, and I turn just in time to watch Matthew step inside. The fact that he didn’t knock annoys me, but I keep my mouth firmly shut, knowing that if I bring it up, he’ll just claim he forgot and make me feel like I’m overreacting. The reality is, he doesn’t care what I ask of him, which has been a running theme the last five years of our marriage and just one of the many reasons why we’re here today.

“Hey.” The look in his dark-brown eyes is somber, but it’s difficult for me to tell if he’s genuinely sad about what we’re about to do or if it’s just for show. I don’t know when I lost the ability to read him, but at some point, I did.

“Hey.” I force a half-smile before I turn back to the counter, hearing him greet Phillip.

I pour myself and Phillip a glass of water but don’t bother asking Matthew if he’d like one. I refuse to give him a reason to stick around after this is done.

Carrying both glasses to the table, I pass Phillip his water and take a seat across from Matthew, with Phillip seated between us at the head of the table, his briefcase open in front of him. After pulling out a stack of papers and two pens, he closes his briefcase and places it on the floor next to his chair.

“As I discussed with both of you prior to today, you’ll each be leaving this marriage with all your personal assets intact.” He looks at Matthew. “I do, however, understand that you and Francisca have a verbal agreement about the sale of the condo that you and she purchased.”

Of course, he couldn’t let that go and had to bring it up.

“We do,” Matthew murmurs.

With a nod, Phillip takes the top sheet off the stack of papers he has in front of him, then turns the stack my way. “Sign at each tab.” He hands me a pen, and I sign my name next to a pink sticky tab, then sign it again and again until he reaches the bottom of the pile.

When he turns the stack Matthew’s way, I wonder if there is something wrong with me. You’d think after vowing to spend my life with him and tying myself into knots for years as I tried to make it work between us, there would be a tingle of doubt or a twinge of pain as I watch him sign his name on our divorce papers, but all I feel is relief that we can both finally move on.

“That’s it,” Phillip murmurs softly, picking up the stack of papers while looking at me. “Do you want me to make a copy of these for you, or would you just like me to send them to your e-mail?”

“You can e-mail them.” Honestly, what am I going to even do with divorce papers? Frame them and hang them on the wall in my studio as proof that I sucked at being a wife, even though I tried with every single breath I took to make things work and still failed miserably?

“Very well.” He picks up his briefcase and puts the papers back inside it, and I hand him my pen after Matthew passes over his. “Matthew, it was good seeing you.” He stands, and I get up from my chair as well.

“You too, Phillip,” he replies but stays seated, indicating that he plans to stick around after Phillip leaves.

Great.

“Will I see you and Elizabeth tomorrow evening?” I ask as I walk Phillip to the door, and he almost smiles at the mention of his wife.

“We’ll be there. Elizabeth would never miss one of your mother’s parties.”

“I can’t wait to see her.” I adore his wife. She’s flamboyant, funny, and loud to the point of obnoxious. She is also one of the few people who told me that I should chase my dream of becoming an artist—without even knowing if I had any real potential.

Her belief was, if I believed in my talent, then I was talented, and that is something I’ve carried with me every single day since.

Opening the door, I step back to allow him room to leave. “Thank you for coming today.”

“You’re welcome, and I’ll have Tammy get a copy of these papers e-mailed over to you as soon as I file them.”

“Sounds good. Have a good evening.”

“You as well.” He dips his chin and walks out.

Closing the door, I drag in a breath before I turn back around to face Matthew, who is now standing with his hip pressed into the edge of the table and his arms crossed over his chest. I’d like to claim that I don’t still think he’s good-looking, but with dark hair, strong, elegant features, and an ever-present tan thanks to his Italian heritage, there is no denying that he is a very attractive man.

“How do you feel?” he asks softly.

“All right.” I wrap my arms around my middle as he holds my gaze from across the room. “You?”

“Strange.” He shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t think it’s hit me yet that you’re not my wife anymore.”

The possessiveness of the word “wife” grates against my skin. For years, I felt like I was nothing more than a pretty accessory he’d flaunt when the mood struck, then tuck away when he was done showing me off. My value in his life became limited to fancy dinners and rubbing elbows with those he deemed important to his goals. And for a while, I lived off those moments, hoping they’d be enough to get me through, but they never were. “I guess signing those papers didn’t change the fact that I’m still in love with you.”

“Matthew—” I dig my nails into my palm, hoping that he doesn’t do what he’s done dozens of times since I told him that I was leaving him and attempt to talk me into giving him another chance.

“I know I might not have shown it like I was supposed to,” he interrupts, holding up his hands. “But I do love you, which is why I just gave you what you wanted.” Pushing away from the table, he starts walking toward me. “If you need anything, you know how to get a hold of me.”

Nodding, I hold my breath when he stops in front of me and leans forward to brush his lips across my cheek.

“See you tomorrow evening.”

I don’t reply. The reminder that our connection will never fully be severed washes away any of my earlier relief. He and I will always be in each other’s lives in one way or another. Our families are linked through business and friendships that were established long before either of us were born.

When I hear the door close behind me, I walk over to flip the lock in place, then head across my studio to PJ, who is whining, trying to get my attention. Opening his kennel, I pull him out, and he instantly nuzzles into my neck, like he senses that I’m upset and is trying to comfort me.

I never planned on having an animal of any kind, but two years ago, I walked into a pet shop with my best friend Molly, who was picking up food for her dog, and I saw PJ in a pen in the middle of the store. The moment I laid eyes on him, I couldn’t help but ask if I could hold him, and it wasn’t long after that I was leaving the store with a puppy I had no clue how to take care of.

Matthew instantly hated him, but I was in love, so I didn’t care in the slightest how he felt. Those first couple of months were a learning experience for PJ and me, since he was still very much a baby at that time, but we figured things out, and he’s been my companion and furry best friend ever since. After giving him some love and assuring him that I’m okay, I give him one of his favorite treats that he carries across the apartment to his bed.

Then, with my mind still itching from signing the divorce papers and my interaction with Matthew, I grab a blank canvas from a stack propped up against the wall and let go of my emotions with heavy strokes of my brush and darker colors than I normally use. And even though the painting isn’t one that anyone else will ever see, that night when I finish, I think it might be my favorite creation yet.

CHAPTER 2

Francisca

“Wow.” My Uber driver Amiee, who is probably in her sixties, whistles when my parents' home comes into view at the end of their long, tree-lined driveway. “Who lives here?”

“I’m not sure. I was just told to meet my friend at this address.” It’s a lie I’ve told often, so it falls easily off my tongue. My father is either loved or hated in Nashville, and there is no in-between, but that’s the way it goes when you’re dealing with politics. But the awe in my voice isn’t quite fake. Even growing up in the mansion we’re driving toward, I know it’s impressive. With two stories made of towering bricks, six lit-up pillars, and wide steps that cascade down the front to the edge of the circular driveway, it looks like something royalty in Europe would live in.

“I need better friends.” Amiee laughs, meeting my gaze in the rearview mirror, and I smile at her.

When we reach the front of the long line of cars that are either dropping people off or waiting to be parked by the valet my mom set up for the evening, I pick up my clutch from the seat next to me, then scoot across it to the passenger door.

“Thank you for the ride.”

“Any time, darlin’, and if you need a ride later, I should be in the area.”

“Thanks.” I start to push the door open, but a young guy—probably sixteen or seventeen—gets it before me.

“Good evening,” he mumbles, looking uncomfortable in the dress shirt he’s wearing while his mop of dirty blond hair falls into his eyes.

“Good evening.” I swing my legs out of the car at the same time to avoid flashing him as I get out. Once I’m on my feet, I adjust my dress. The cabernet-colored tulle material with sequins glitters, and while the corset bodice is stretchy, the dress is also short and tight, so there isn’t much adjusting I can do.

As the kid closes the door behind me, I press my clutch against my stomach, which is swarming with anxiety, and walk up the steps to the open door of the house, where I can see dozens of people inside. You’d think after attending parties like this my whole life that I would be used to them, but I’m not. Crowds and people make me uncomfortable, especially these people, with their fake smiles and even faker personalities, each a copy-and-paste of the man or woman next to them.

Stepping over the threshold into the house, I scan the open foyer for my mother, but she’s nowhere in sight, which is a surprise. Normally, she’s at the door greeting people as they arrive.

“Champagne?” a young woman in a crisp white dress shirt and bowtie asks, holding a silver tray out toward me.

“Please.” I take one of the flutes and down the cold liquid in one gulp, watching her eyes widen.

“Thank you.” I place the glass down on her tray and pick up another. If I’m going to make it through tonight, I’m going to need to be tipsy, which is why I didn’t drive myself.

“Uh… you’re welcome.” Her smile is wonky.

Smiling back, I take the full glass with me and move through the crowd, avoiding eye contact by keeping my head lowered and my eyes on my feet. The only thing that sucks is I can still hear the whispers as I pass people.

This is the first event I’ve attended since Matthew and I separated, and I’m sure most of the people here now know we are divorced and they’re coming up with their own versions of why that happened.

He cheated? I cheated? We couldn’t have kids? He worked too much? I was too focused on my business?

None of it’s true—well… not most of it anyway.

Walking around the corner into the living room—which is more of a showroom since no one uses it unless there’s a party—I stumble back after running headfirst into someone coming around it from the opposite side. Their huge body almost knocks me off my feet and hits my hand just right so that my cold champagne splashes across my chest and down the front of my dress, making me gasp.

“Shit.” Large, warm hands wrap around my bare upper arms as I lift my gaze up and up to eyes a shade of blue that are so uniquely beautiful they remind me of one of my favorite paintings by Vincent van Gogh. My eyes leave his, and I quickly scan the rest of his features: blond hair that is a touch too long, square jaw, full lips, and heavy brow. I don’t know him, but I swear there is something familiar about him. “You okay?” he asks.

“Just soaking wet?”

“Sorry.” An attractive half-smile forms at the edge of his lips. “I normally use a little more finesse when getting a woman to that point.”

It takes a moment for what he just said to register in my head, and when it does, I go wide-eyed and gasp, my hand landing on his warm, hard chest. My head falls back to my shoulders, and I laugh harder than I have in a very long time. He must not be from around here or know who I am. None of the men at this party tonight would ever make such a crude joke—not to me. They’d save that kind of talk for when they were locked in with my dad in his office, along with his box of Cuban cigars and expensive whiskey.

This man is refreshing.

“I hope you at least know their names,” I get out through my laughter, and he grins.

“Most of the time.”

Shaking my head, still smiling, I step back from him and hold out my free hand. “Franny.”

“Dayton.” His hand engulfs mine as it wraps around it, and an odd tingle spreads up my arm. “It’s nice to meet you, Franny.”

“You too. Now, if you don’t mind…” I wiggle my fingers so he’ll let my hand go. “I’m going to go get myself cleaned up.”

“I’ll come with. I was just in search of a bathroom when I bumped into you.”

“You’re in luck. I know where one is.”

“You’ve been here before?”

“A few times.” I lead the way through the living room to the doorway on the opposite side but take a left around the corner instead of a right, which goes to the large, covered back patio, where I can hear people talking and music playing. At the end, I open the door to the part of the house my parents actually use. Unlike the living room that we just walked through, the one we step into is warm and lived-in, with cozy couches, thick blankets, lots of pillows, and a large TV over the fireplace.

“Should we be in here?”

“My parents won’t mind.” I go down another hall to the half-bath, and the light comes on automatically when I step into the small room with him right behind me.

“You’re Barrett’s daughter.”

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

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