ChapterEleven
Oliver
“This isn’t mine.” Piper crouches down next to a golden sun propped against the wall, a confused frown marring her face as she inspects it before meeting my eyes. Her brows furrow. “It has a serial number on it.”
I walk over to her, my shoes tapping on the concrete floor. Squatting beside her, I examine the piece resting next to it, some kind of patterned dragonfly. “This one too? It doesn’t look like you.”
We’re alone in the storage room in SH Kingdom, the gallery that will be opening in a few short months. I texted Piper earlier this morning to let her know the shipment of her work had arrived, even though I could have had Carson do it. She asked me to accompany her to view the pieces.
I don’t know if she realizes I could never tell her no. Of course, I am apparently capable of denying her unspoken requests when her eyes devour me like she wants to eat me. But I acted out of pure self-preservation. If I start kissing Piper, I don’t think I could stop.
I should have told her about Emma. But the question came out of left field, and she had scrambled my thoughts. It wasn’t until later that I realized she had likely seen Emma’s texts.
“He probably bought it at Pottery Barn.” She sighs.
“Why would he do that?”
She stands, wiping her palms on her jeans. “To mess with me in any way he possibly can. I’ve given up trying to understand anything Ben does. I don’t think like a psychopath.”
“It’s a good thing I do.” I pull my phone out of the inside pocket of my suit jacket.
Piper stops me with a soft hand on my arm. “It’s okay. Don’t call whoever you’re calling. Then we’re just playing into his hands. That’s what he wants.”
I blink at her. “He wants to feel the full force of my legal team?”
Ben may not realize it yet, but he’s going to be ruined. I’ve been waiting for an excuse ever since I laid eyes on him. He’s a bully, and I can’t abide it.
“He wants to get a reaction. He wants the attention. He wants any kind of connection to me, to get under my skin to prove he still can. I can’t give it to him. I won’t. Not anymore. It’s not worth it. I wouldn’t have been able to use anything I made when I was with him, anyway.” Her arms cross, and she gazes at the concrete floor.
“There’s one more box. Should we even bother?”
She shrugs. “I guess.”
I open it up with the utility knife left on the shelf and pull out a few small pieces wrapped in packing paper. The first one I unfold is a cast sculpture that resembles an Oscar except it’s bronze instead of gold and the figure of the man is wearing overalls, holding a large hammer, and has a smile on his burnished face.
“Oh.” Piper’s voice tugs my attention. She’s right next to me, peering over my shoulder, close enough for me to catch a whiff of her perfume. “I made that one for Dad when I was sixteen.” Her smile is sheepish. “Best Dad award. Finley sent it to me after he passed. He kept it in the office at Fox Cottages.”
I hand it to her. She hefts it up to peer underneath, rubbing a spot then frowning. “It’s scratched. I wonder if he was trying to mess with it.”
She sets it to the side, and then we go through the rest of the box, discarding a flower made from old spoons and a bird made from various nuts and bolts. All replicas done by amateurs.
“None of these are mine. Only this.” She picks up the Dad award and smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. “I guess I should be grateful he sent anything at all.”
I want to tie Ben up by his balls from the High Bridge and let the pigeons have at him. Instead, I say carefully, “Are you certain you don’t want me to have my lawyer look into potential recourse so we can obtain your actual work?”
She shakes her head. “Don’t bother. It’s not worth it. I really thought I wanted it all back, but I don’t want anything that reminds me of that time in my life. I want to move on. Create something that represents who I am now. Whoever that is.” She chuckles lightly.
I stare at her, wondering for a second at how she can be so vulnerable yet contain a steel core of strength. “Are you hungry?”
She startles at the abrupt question, watching me for a second before answering. “Yes.”
“I know a good place nearby.” I make it a statement instead of a question and then brace myself for a rejection.
“Let’s do it.” She immediately flushes. “I mean, let’s go.”
“A food truck? Really?” Piper’s question isn’t haughty or dismissive. If anything, she sounds delighted as we make our way to the end of the line.
“Everything we need is here. Lunch and then dessert.” I gesture at the Salvadorian food truck and then swing my hand over to Scarlett’s cupcake food truck parked on the corner.