“And he has, for all his youth, thus far conducted himself in a professional manner as I, and our clients, expect?”

His teeth clenched. “Yes.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” The architect pulled his coat closer around him. “You’ll advise me when there is a preliminary mock-up of the panels?” he asked.

“Yes.” Flynn tucked the drawings under his arm. “We’ll get started immediately.”

Flynn retreated from the church, his strides eating up the ground. Despite his initial discontent, a familiar feeling was starting to unfurl, one he hadn’t felt in a long time. The thrill of a new project soared within him, accompanied by the anticipation of being able to do what he loved more than anything in the world. Confidence that he possessed all the skill to make it as incredible as he wished it to be. Eagerness to simply…create, now that he had a direction.

With a bit of a start, he realized that he was suddenly grinning like a fool.

Flynn shoved open the door of the makeshift studio. “Good news, Mr. Beaumont—” He stopped abruptly. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Charlie Beaumont jumped slightly though he didn’t turn. He had a number of Flynn’s sketches laid out before him, the sketches that Flynn had failed to put away earlier and had carelessly left on the end of the table.

“She’s quite beautiful,” Beaumont murmured quietly. “Who is she?”

Flynn stalked to the table and swept the sketches into his hands in a single movement. “None of your goddamn business,” he snarled. He gathered the rest of his drawings and stuffed them back into his satchel. “You had no right to look at them. No right to touch them.”

“You left them on the table,” Beaumont pointed out mildly.

“That didn’t give you leave to pry.” He was almost shouting, even as he realized that his anger was aimed inwardly. Truth was, he should have burned those drawings long ago.

“My apologies, Mr. Rutledge.” Beaumont retreated back toward the panels. “It was not my intent to cause you grief over so personal a matter.”

“It’s not personal, dammit,” he snapped. At least, not anymore. Cecelia had made that abundantly clear. Belatedly, and with no little dismay, Flynn wondered if Beaumont’s efforts to convince him he was a stranger had been a ploy. Wondered if the boy was already privy to the rumors that seemed to dog Flynn everywhere he went. If he already suspected who the woman in the drawings was and was merely baiting Flynn or seeking confirmation. “And it’s none of your concern.”

“Of course,” Beaumont replied quietly. “Again, my apologies.”