Opening the door to the covered back patio, Lilah motioned for him to precede her. Royce stepped back outside and then turned to look at the small woman, confused. “I don’t understand.”
“He moved his work back out to the guest house. It’s his studio again.”
“You moved out?”
Lilah looked away from him, unable to hold his gaze. “I moved into one of the spare bedrooms in the main house, so I could keep a closer watch on him. He also needed the guest house back to create.”
“I’m glad he’s had you. You’re a good sister.”
“No, I haven’t been, but I’m trying to be a better one.”
Royce nodded. There was nothing he could say. He hadn’t been a fan of Lilah when they first met. She didn’t treat her brother well, but he was glad that she seemed to be genuinely trying to make amends. He knew firsthand how hard change was and how rare it was to get a second chance.
Just as he started to walk toward the guest house at the opposite end of the property, Lilah called out to him. “And don’t you dare tell him that I told you where he was!”
A small smile lifted the corner of his mouth as he looked over his shoulder at Lilah. “Deal.”
She sniffed once and promptly shut the door. No, he definitely wasn’t forgiven for hurting Marc, but she was willing let him try and make Marc happy again.
Shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans, Royce briskly walked across the green lawn to the quaint two-story guest house that looked like a cottage with its high peaked roof and white clapboard siding. The design of the guest house was nothing like the main house in terms of style or model, but Royce could easily guess why Marc liked it. The front of the house was almost entirely filled with windows from floor to roof. Royce could only imagine the amount of natural light that poured in as he worked.
Royce had never been inside the guest house. Marc had never allowed anyone from Ward Security to invade his sister’s privacy, regardless of how little she seemed to care for his privacy. All security measures, including Royce, were limited to the main house and Marc’s physical person.
Stepping onto the porch, Royce surged forward, heart skipping a beat when he noticed that the two front doors were thrown open. His mind didn’t even have time to conjure up possible horrible fates for Marc because he found the artist standing barefoot the in the middle of the living room, wearing a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt. He was splattered and smeared with various colors of paint. His hair looked longer than he usually wore it and was in disarray as if he’d been running his fingers through it as he worked. He was a complete mess, and Royce was sure he’d never looked so wonderful.
Marc turned from the massive canvas he had leaning against the wall to grab a new brush but stopped as he reached for it, his eyes landing on Royce. Emotions flowed so clearly across his face. Royce had always been able to read him. Marc couldn’t hide anything, and that moment was no different. For a split second, his lips parted, and his eyes widened in joy, but it crumbled in a heartbeat under crushing pain and then anger. When he straightened, his empty hand dropping down to his side, Marc managed to wipe all emotion from his face.
“Leave,” Marc bit out.
“We need to talk.”
“We’ve got nothing to talk about. You made that clear in the hospital almost two months ago.” Marc turned away and marched to the kitchen.
Frowning, Royce followed him, his steps slowing as he crossed in front of the canvas Marc has been working on. It was easily five feet tall. The colors looked as if they’d been slung haphazardly onto the canvas but stepping back, it was more like an impressionist painting as the colors merged to create a bigger image. An eye…a jaw…a smile. He was looking at himself, and yet not himself. It was stunning. It wasn’t just that Marc had created a likeness of Royce, but he’d captured an emotion, a moment so perfect, that it took Royce’s breath away. He’d always thought that Marc’s work was good, but this…this was amazing.
“You’ve lost weight,” Marc said.
Royce jerked his gaze from the painting to find Marc standing in the kitchen, a bottle of water clutched in both hands. He didn’t look happy that he’d spoken—as if he wanted to take back the words.
“I have. I lost my appetite when—”
“You need to leave,” Marc’s hard voice cut him off, unwilling to hear Royce had suffered since leaving Marc in that hospital bed.
“Michael died because of me, because of what I did,” Royce bluntly announced before Marc could start pushing him toward the door. “I loved him. Bought a ring. I was planning to propose. Nothing too cheesy, but there was this park that he loved. I was waiting for the cherry blossoms to bloom. I was going to take him to his favorite park with a blanket and picnic basket.”