I went in the bathroom, freshened my makeup, and brushed my teeth. I swiped my face with powder and added a dab of lip gloss to my lips, then grabbed my coat and my bag, pausing when I passed the stack of mail on my coffee table. Beckett had been considerate enough to consolidate it all for me, so I might as well start going through it. I’d have time to read on the train.
I grabbed a couple of catalogs, a magazine, and a large envelope. It didn’t have a return address, so I figured it wasn’t a bill. Probably another catalog. I stuffed the mail in my bag, shrugged into my coat, and headed out. I pushed open the door to the building as a guy carrying a toolbox slammed the door of a white van and jogged up. “Hey, hold the door!”
I leaned back on the door, holding it open and juggling my bag and mail.
“Sorry,” the guy said. “Plumber. Leaky pipe on the first floor, and I’m already running late. Thanks!”
He breezed past me, and I started to walk away but then turned to look back at him. Something about him was familiar. Had I seen him around before? Nothing about him stood out. I just had a weird, déjà vu feeling. I shrugged it off and let the door close behind me. I had a meeting with sexy Hutch Morrison to make.
Eighteen
Morrison Hotel was located downtown in the South Loop. It was usually a pretty quick ride on the L, but today the train was crawling along and lingering at every stop for much longer than normal. I had plenty of time to think about my fight with Beckett.
We hadn’t fought very many times during our friendship, but the few times we had had been epic. The last big fight I could remember was after Jace had died, when I wanted to give up photography. I couldn’t bear to take surfing pictures anymore, and I thought that was all I could do.
We’d argued about it casually over the phone for months, but once I told him I was starting to look for jobs—I didn’t care what I did at that point, I just needed to pay the rent—Beckett lost it. We had a huge fight and Beckett told me he would never speak to me again, especially if I took the receptionist job at Discount Tire Warehouse I’d been offered. He was serious. He had more faith in me than I had in myself at that point and he’d argued I could make anything I photographed exciting—even radishes. Then he’d basically dared me to come to Chicago and give it a try. I was so pissed at him, I didn’t speak to him for over a month. But I did turn down that job. We made up and eventually I took him up on his offer. Of course, once I’d come to Chicago, I’d decided to stay. And Beckett—damn him—had been right about the radishes. And about me.
He tended to be right about pretty much everything, which meant I could either be pissed at him for a week and then admit he was right—that I hadn’t exactly been fair to William—or I could admit it now. If I admitted it now, it would cut out a few steps.
Fine. So Beckett was right. I was selfish. I really never thought about everything William had to juggle to fit me into his schedule. And I also knew that all the annoying secretive shit he pulled, like having me followed or leaving me in Napa, he did because he cared about me and wanted to protect me. Was it so bad having a boyfriend who wanted to keep me safe, even I didn’t know what, exactly, he was protecting me from? The world he inhabited was so completely foreign to me—what could I possibly know about what he dealt with on a daily basis? I should just be happy he cared about me enough to go to all the trouble.
As for Beckett’s argument about Jeremy, I still wasn’t convinced sleeping with my dead husband’s brother wasn’t a big deal. I could work on forgiving myself for it though, especially now that I had squared things with Jeremy as best I could. Maybe my shame would fade over time. Maybe.
But I did know one thing for certain. I loved William Maddox Lambourne. I loved him so much it hurt when we weren’t together. Our texts this morning had been nice, but it was killing me that we were still fighting.
I reached into my bag, looking for something to take my mind off the state of my relationships, and pulled out the stack of mail. I had several thick catalogs—Pottery Barn, Williams Sonoma, Restoration Hardware, Chefs Catalog…that one was for work. The last piece of mail was the large envelope. I looked at it more closely and noted it had only my name and address on it. It had been mailed in Chicago just a couple of days ago.
I ripped it open and pulled out three proof sheets. I hadn’t even considered Fresh Market might return the proofs of my asparagus and cherries shots with comments. I flipped the sheets over and gasped. These weren’t pictures I’d taken. I stared instead at pictures taken of me.