Shelter Me: A Shelter Novel (3 page)

As for everything else? I had no clue what I'd been like before the amnesia. I was trapped in present day, and my art reflected that—the dark place I couldn't escape, no matter how hard I tried. Like a mouse trapped in a never-ending maze with no incentive to get out.

Except for Lucas Caine. Was he finally the jolt I needed?

S
everal hours later
, Brayden was leaving me off at my apartment door after he'd ultimately helped me put an order to my paintings and calmed me down.

"Just make sure you don't neglect your muse. I know how cranky you get when you don't paint," he warned as I let myself inside.

His concern had nothing to do with money—he was absolutely right that missing even a day of painting left me anxious and irritable. Two days was a lifetime. At times, I avoided painting because the subject matter was difficult and exhausting, and it was Brayden who'd finally told me that I was a bitch when I avoided the canvas.

"And lock the damned door," he called through it. Granted, I'd been about to walk away from it without doing so, and I managed to click the double bolts before I kicked off my sneakers and wandered toward the easel.

When I blinked, it seemed like maybe five minutes had passed, but I knew better. At times, I could lose five, six, seven hours to the muse I'd come to nickname "the beast."

Feed the beast before it eats you alive.

Now, I realized night surrounded me. I'd been painting nearly in the dark. At some point during the frenzy, I'd turned on the small studio light, but the rest of the apartment was in total darkness. The heat was more oppressive here than it was upstate, with no nighttime relief. I'd bought myself a selection of flowers that I separated and spread around the apartment in bunches. I smelled the flowers strongly, probably because I'd kept the windows closed and the air off.

I jerked the windows open for relief from the sweet smell and continued painting. At some point, I went to the kitchen for something to drink and squished the stems between my toes.

The flowers were on the ground, as if someone had dumped them from their vases, except there were no empty vases.

Daffodils. I hadn't
bought
daffodils. I'd grabbed Gerbera daisies…and those were still in their jars. But the daffodils were spread along the floor like a path that led to nowhere.

I stared stupidly. Maybe I'd taken my anti-anxiety meds without realizing it? I rubbed my arms at the sudden chill that went through my body, and I rechecked the door. I flicked on all the lights in the apartment, but it was just me, my paintings and the flowers.

I rubbed my eyes as exhaustion and panic began to overtake me. I grabbed for some of the homeopathic remedies I'd been using instead and sent a text to my therapist about a Skype session.

I'd probably knocked the flowers over in my rush to get to painting. It wasn't like I hadn't spilled or forgotten things before when painting was on my mind. But still, a chat with my therapist wouldn't do me any harm.

I'd gotten to a good place with my anxiety, but the months before arriving in New York had me refilling prescriptions for anti-anxiety meds and speaking with Dr. B a little more often. He was the same therapist I'd used in the Catskills, because the idea of switching to a new one made me too anxious. I needed an anchor to the past, a tether to the only place I remembered as home. And Dr. B was a family man. Former military. Kind and trustworthy. But certainly, no pushover.

And I pushed.

These days, I was proud of myself. Beyond my first week, I'd been able to manage my anxiety without meds and I felt calmer and safer now. The interview and the upcoming show was a lot to manage, but painting helped me.

But seeing the flowers was stirring something—a memory or a dream…and I was getting the uncomfortable, chest-tightening sensation. My skin was clammy and I heard the harshness of my breath in my own ears.

Does someone know? Did they recognize me?

Daffodils. An innocuous flower. Why was I having such a reaction to them?

Because you're tired.
Shaken up.
Even with the modicum of success I'd just gained, I realized how difficult being successful actually was. Being on top of the mountain, or close to it, was more pressure than wanting it.

I stopped myself. Reminded myself of Dr. B's words, that "fear, stress and no sleep do strange things to people's minds."

I had plenty of fear, stress and no sleep—I'd been riding on pure adrenaline for days. I assured myself that I'd probably knocked the flowers over at some point in my painting frenzy, and that Brayden had been the one to send them. He was always making sure the apartment was well stocked with food and flowers—
the finer things
, he called them. He knew if left to my own devices I'd live on takeout and never have anything living in my apartment except mold growing on old food in the fridge. That was easily evidenced several hours later, after a great, calming session with Dr. B, a hot shower and Brayden in my kitchen making breakfast.

"You're such a guy," Brayden was complaining after pouring an entire expired milk into the sink. "Good thing you've got me."

"We live a door away from a deli."

"Exactly." He tossed the empty milk and unpacked two new ones. He started the coffeemaker and soon the smell of brew filled the room.

I didn't bother asking him about the flowers. I told myself I'd just forgotten to do so, but really, I didn't want to deal with any of it today.

Tomorrow.
I'd deal with all of it tomorrow.

* * *

B
y five that evening
, I was dressed in a stylish little black dress, my hair up in a loose, elegant knot, sparse makeup—enough to emphasize those baby blues, the makeup artist had insisted—and inside the gallery as the doors opened. Brayden told me I was stunning, and for once, I believed him.

There was something magical about this night, the magic of all possibilities unfolding at my feet. Of course, this was because the doors were still closed.

When they did open, I was worried the panic would slowly wrap around me, fighting to squeeze me in an anaconda grip. That was how I'd made Brayden understand what the attacks were like when we watched the movie of the same name. He'd laughed with me, then sobered and said, "That sucks."

I knew then we'd be best friends.

Now, he either kept a hand on one of my shoulders or threaded a hand in mine as small talk ensued. He was part promoter, all bodyguard, stopping people from getting too close, smoothly edging me away when it looked like I was about to get surrounded.

He'd told me I could escape to the quiet of the back room, and I'd had to take advantage of it only once so far. Admittedly, I was disappointed, as I'd hoped to find Lucas back there, smirking at getting past the security measures of the storeroom areas.

But Lucas came through the front door tonight, two hours into the show, when it was at its most crowded, and I swear, the entire gallery stilled for a long moment when he walked in. I know I did.

The whole gallery seemed to come to an immediate stop, like a breath drawn inward and not exhaled unless given permission.

When Lucas finally gave it with a nod to my corner of the gallery, business and pleasure restarted as normal, although there was still that hit of electricity spiking the air.

Lucas seemed used to it. Maybe he even expected it. But it didn't deter him from his path, which was coming directly to me, his eyes locked and loaded on mine. I was unable to look away and he was devouring me. That was something I'd normally be embarrassed to even think, but there was no substitute for the word.

His physical presence had the most extreme push to it. I'd never registered anything like that from anyone. He was so still, a predator, watching me with keen interest. I'd never been as intensely aware of a man in my life. I could smell his skin, wanted to taste it, put my mouth on his and forget everything else, including basic human decency.

I blamed the art. The heat. My lack of proper nutrition.

When he was directly in front of me, he smiled. "It looks like your dreams are coming true."

Such double meaning to those words. He hadn't said congratulations. Because he knew I saw this as a mixed blessing. Was it understanding or mocking? Did he know how scared of those dreams I was?

"Thanks for coming," I told him as Brayden said, "More people to see," with a glare in Lucas's direction.

Lucas's expression registered amusement, and reluctantly, I pulled my focus from him back to Brayden, who was literally tugging me in the direction of willing buyers and giving me murmured updates about how many paintings sold. I'd noticed that the painting Lucas had liked was already tagged.

"Who bought that?" I asked Bray, and he frowned. Checked his list.

"Phone sale," he said slowly. "Says the buyer will pick up tomorrow. Grant Loughlin."

Grant.
Not
Lucas.

"There's Ann Maslow," Brayden noted as he steered me clear, as we'd discussed. I'd planned on avoiding her like the plague. She was pretty—tall, with dark hair and serious-looking glasses that I bet had non-prescription lenses.

I didn't know how much longer I could do this. A lot of people here were happy for me. Some weren't, and I felt their thinly veiled intentions as surely as if they'd stabbed me with them.

Head up, Ryn. You earned this. You deserve it.

Because after what hell I'd most likely survived, to give a critic, or a jealous competitor, that much power, seemed too foolish. But still, this mingling wasn't my domain, my forte. I'd given them my art, and now I wanted to revoke their access to
me
.

I took a long drink of water and popped a peppermint into my mouth, contemplating my exit strategy. If anyone noticed I'd disappeared, it would only look better in their articles.

And then I was making small talk,
participating in my own success
, as Brayden insisted, when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I fully expected it to be Ann, but it wasn't. It was an auburn-haired, alabaster-skinned woman, maybe a few years older than me. She looked like she belonged in a painting herself, managing to be vulnerable and haughty at once.

"You're the artist?" She looked me up and down in a most obvious way that made me happy I didn't remember ever going to high school.

I smiled tightly. "Yes. Ryn Taylor."

"Ah." She crossed one arm across her chest—the other lifted the champagne flute to her mouth. "First show, right? Must be nice to have a bestie who owns a gallery."

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Ann Maslow deep in conversation with Lucas. "It doesn't hurt," I said honestly. "But he's not the one buying all the paintings."

"No, Lucas is," Brayden muttered behind me when the woman rolled her eyes and walked away.

"He's buying me. Trying to, anyway," I said and Brayden didn't deny it.

"Does it matter? Because he's only getting the paintings, Ryn. He can't take what's not freely given."

That didn't mean Lucas Caine wouldn't try. I stared into the crowded gallery space. This was everything I'd dreamed about over the past eight years and figured I could never do. With the help of the doctor, conditioning exercises and rescue medication in case of an actual panic attack—and my best friend in the world—I was doing it.

"Hello, Miss Taylor."

I turned to find Ann Maslow standing there, staring at me with a hard look. "Please, it's Ryn. Thanks for coming."

She raised her glass and motioned around. "Couldn't miss it—I'd been hoping to get an early viewing for the article but…" She trailed off and shrugged. "Your work here is definitely…different."

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the auburn-haired woman talking to Lucas, looking between him and me, with a possessive hand on his arm.

Great.

I excused myself from Ann and her insulting comment that had been delivered with a smile. She was vacillating between ignoring me and staring at me, like she was writing a second, more unflattering article in her mind anyway, and I knew spending more time with her wasn't in my best interest, on any level.

I pushed into the back room, went toward the rear door where it was more private and out of the way of the bathroom traffic.

Within moments, I wasn't alone. I don't know how, as I'd locked the door behind me and there wasn't a window big enough for him to fit through that wasn't barred. But Lucas was here and he smelled gorgeous, like fresh air and sunshine, despite the rain. I couldn't help but feel a wash of satisfaction rush over me because he'd come after me, leaving Miss Alabaster behind.

That wasn't the only reason I'd come into the back room, but I couldn't deny that, somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I'd been hoping he would.

As I looked at him, a slow burn charged the atmosphere and I knew I was in real trouble.

I'd had experiences, had my heart broken by a man I'd admitted everything to. He was another creative type—an author, and I thought he got me. That was until he told me that my emotions would drain his creativity. That happened after a weekend together that I thought went really well. But I got over him and in the meantime he'd hit some bestseller lists and had some pretty good success with his books. It was my turn now, and I had no problem taking it.

This man… I wasn't sure I could handle him. But I wanted to try. I was more than willing to try. There was a barely concealed wildness inside him, just riding the surface, pulling me to him.