Shaded Lines Read online

  Shaded Lines

  The Handcrafted Trilogy, Book 3

  Lilia Moon

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2018 by Lilia Moon

  Borrowing my words to make money is a hard limit. Using them to fuel your own fantasies is totally encouraged!

  xoxo Lilia

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  Now enjoy what happens when a sexy Irishman walks into a sleepy art gallery in the middle of nowhere…

  xo Lilia

  Chapter One

  Daley

  Valentine’s Day is for idiots.

  Or more precisely, it’s a lot more work than it should be if you’re an idiot. I always take on too many commissions at this time of year, wanting to help women feel beautiful and my bank account feel fatter after whatever terrible things I did to it over the holidays.

  I won’t regret the trip to Tahiti, though. Skinny-dipping in waters the color of joy was absolutely worth it.

  I push back on my chair in the glass-encased sunroom that serves as my studio, rolling over to the easel I use as a pin-up board. Lori is lovely, even if she doesn’t quite know it yet. She’s got curves she probably thinks are overly abundant, but there’s a reason artists through the centuries have painted and drawn and sculpted well-endowed women. My charcoals love curves.

  It would be easy to make hers generic, flowing and attractive and interchangeable with a dozen other sexy naked ladies. But I don’t do this to be generic. When Lori looks at this, I want her to see herself. Unmistakably and undeniably. There’s far too much denial in the world already, and a whole lot of it comes from curvy women of a certain age.

  I tilt my head, surveying the pictures she sent me one more time. There’s one that keeps pulling my eye. It isn’t the best photo. She’s blurry and off center, caught in the act of slipping out of the silk robe she’s wearing in several of the other images she sent. They’re classy, carefully sexy and discreet, just like she’s hoping my drawing of her will be.

  I could kiss the photographer for taking it, and Lori for sending it. Her inner self knows the single, blurry moment of embarrassed daring caught something real.

  I study the image more closely. Without touching. I’ve already been playing with my charcoals for an hour, and not the pencils that keep my fingers at least a little bit clean. Lori needs the dirty kind, the ones where my hands feel deep into who she is and come out looking like they belong to a miner.

  They’re not quite miner-dirty yet, but it won’t take much longer.

  I take a swig from my water bottle, which is well used to being covered in black fingerprints. I put mint in the water this morning, an act of rebellion against the blah-gray rainy skies outside. I love where I live, but I admit to a little bit of yearning for the warm turquoise waters of Tahiti, especially as the calendar turns to February.

  Which is as it should be. My art is better when I yearn a little.

  I swing back to my drawing paper, mind decided. Lori might think she wants a portrait of herself in a silk robe, revealing little bits of sexy—something nice and safe to show her friends after a glass of wine or two—but that’s not what my charcoals think, and they get to be the boss. If she hates it, I’ll refund her money.

  I’ve had to do that exactly twice in the thirteen years I’ve been doing this. My charcoals are smart cookies.

  I turn my head and sniff, but all I smell is the distinctive dust of my work. No elves have mysteriously snuck into my studio and left cookies for me to nibble on. Probably because they think it isn’t healthy to eat cookies with charcoal fingerprints on them. Which is a sad state of affairs. I’ll go scrounging later. Someone always takes pity on a poor starving artist and feeds me. Maybe I’ll stop by Bee’s house and pick up an installment payment on the portrait I did for her last summer. Most clients pay me in actual money, but a year’s worth of fried chicken was a way better deal, particularly when Bee is the kind of model I would happily draw for free. She’s short, stout, and almost as sexy as her fried chicken.

  I grin and start laying down some of the starting lines and shading for Lori. I move quickly, a speed drawing, almost. I want to catch the blur of that moment where movement teased aside the silk of who she wants to look like and let me see who she actually is. Or who she might be if she lets herself get brave enough, which is the whole point of the portraits I do for Beautiful Lines. I’m not a modest artist. I want people to look at what I do and let it change how they see themselves.

  Lori’s a good candidate. Two years out of a messy divorce and landed in with a couple of besties who convinced her to do this. I’m hoping one of them was on the other end of the camera lens. Someone who knows enough to capture that kind of truth is a good friend to have.

  I smile at the paper in front of me. I can see her now, the bare bones at least, and that’s all I’m doing for this morning. I’ll do a second session after lunch and cookies and dropping off some more cardstock for Xander, because apparently there are actual tourists buying things in February, and he’s run out of everything Daley Handmade and even sold two of my sketches, which is pretty fancy.

  I don’t price them cheap. Sexy should never be sold for less than it’s worth.

  Chapter Two

  Callum

  I would never call this place quaint, because I come from a county in Ireland where tourists overuse that word to the point that most of the locals have developed an allergy. But if I weren’t quite so careful with my words, it would be the first one that comes to mind.

  Quaint with interesting undertones. The small gallery is a pit stop on my way to a meeting, but it’s a good one. If I don’t miss my guess, every last thing in here is handmade, and that feels of home in ways that make me smile. I nod at the friendly, bearded man restocking some pottery that looks like it got slightly drunk on the way to the kiln. I’ve sat at a wheel a time or two. Making clay do that on purpose takes skill. I wander over. I’m not a man who collects things, but I like to touch.

  The man doing the stocking moves over so I can reach the goods. “Made by a couple who live down the road. Tom’s the potter and Natasha’s a whiz with glazes.”

  I touch a tiny pitcher with a shiny gray glaze. It evokes the skies outside, somehow. “They’re very good at what they do.”

  “They are.” My companion looks pleased. “I’m Xander, by the way. Let me know if I can tell you the story of anything else in here.”

  That’s a fantastic way to word a sales pitch, and one he clearly means. I’m a man who appreciates people who have callings, even if it’s running a tiny art gallery on the side of a lake in the middle of nowhere. Although there must be something to this particular middle of nowhere. It’s managed to snag the attention of two men I count as friends. I look around. I have it on good authority that Matteo should be back in a quarter-hour or so, and I can happily listen to stories for ten times that long.

  I reach for a small handwoven blanket in every shade of green, artfully draped over books older than I am. “What’s the tale of this one?”

  Xander chuckles. “That’s made by a woman who swears the best art happens with your shoes off.”

  I know a number of Irish farmers who say that most of life is better that way. I finger the green. “I’ve
a sister who would like this very much.”

  “We don’t have many Barefoot Handweaving pieces here at the moment, but Janet’s got a studio down the road, full of everything from dish towels to throws. I’m happy to call and see if she’s home if you’d like to drop by.”

  I shoot him a curious look. “Do you send many of your customers out the door without the item they’d be happy to purchase?”

  He grins. “Sure. My job is to support the artisans of Crawford Bay. Janet will make me brownies if you buy from her instead, so it’s all good.”

  Those could easily be taken as the words of a man who isn’t all that serious about his job, but I’ve been in his gallery long enough to know better. They’re the words of a man deeply passionate about the community he lives in. One who knows that he thrives when everyone is blooming.

  I begin to understand why my friends got themselves waylaid.

  “I’ve got a meeting in a few minutes.” I hold out the green blanket. “I imagine I’m not done shopping yet, so if I could get you to set this aside for me, I’d be grateful.”

  “No problem.” Xander cocks his head. “You here to see Matteo and Rafe?”

  My hand pauses on its way to a small, very beautiful, surprisingly erotic drawing of a flower. “Yes.”

  He chuckles. “There aren’t a whole lot meetings that happen within walking distance of here. Not ones involving guys in fancy business suits, anyhow.”

  This is a very casual suit. I’m not even wearing a tie. I grin, enjoying being a fish out of water. “I’ve done some work with them in the past, and I was in the neighborhood.” I am with the help of a small airport and a rental car, anyhow.

  Xander is amused, but he also clearly knows when to stop digging into the stories of the people examining his wares. He nods his chin at the small drawing I was on my way to investigating. “That’s the last of Daley’s work I have in the shop, but she’s bringing more by this afternoon. It’s worth the wait.”

  “Yes it is.” The voice from behind me is rock moss and sunshine. I turn as a woman makes her way in the door, juggling an umbrella, a box, and a covered plate.

  Being a man who knows his priorities, I reach to help with the plate.

  Her eyes meet mine, laughing gray with a hint of deep purple. “No way, sexy man. The cookies are mine. You can take the box of cards, though.”

  I do as I’m told, fascinated by the woman holding them. She’s clearly the flower artist. Very beautiful and surprisingly erotic describes her down to the ground.

  Xander takes the umbrella, which she evidently used to protect her art and not herself. Her hair has droplets of rain in it, jewels on a backdrop of silver. She looks entirely unconcerned by that, as befits any proper inhabitant of rainy lands. She nods at the box in my hands, but her eyes have strayed to the gallery manager. “I brought you a full restock on the cards, the sedate ones and sexy ones both. And a couple more sketches so that your walls aren’t naked.”

  That’s hardly a concern. The gallery isn’t cluttered, but the walls display a lovely and eclectic collection of local talent. However, if I find the drawings she’s brought, perhaps I can save Xander the trouble of mounting them on the wall.

  I reach into the box, gently moving cards around. “Might I see?”

  She snorts as her hands slide into the box along with mine, clearly not trusting me to treat her art with enough care. “Let me guess. You’re one of those men who tends to ask for forgiveness instead of permission.”

  My hands still. “Not usually, no, and I apologize if that’s what I’ve done this time. I’ve staked a good part of my life on the importance of consent.”

  Chapter Three

  Daley

  No way.

  I stare at the gorgeous, silver-haired man in a shades-of-gray suit as fury births, loud and screaming, in my belly. “Let me guess. You’re a friend of Matteo’s.”

  He shoots me a confused look. “Yes, I am.”

  He’s sexy as all get out and a very good actor, but that isn’t going to save his ass or Matteo’s from a Daley Cohen fire. I set the box of cards down on Xander’s counter reasonably gently, given how angry I am. Then I take the sexy man by the hand and drag him out of the gallery.

  It’s raining cats and dogs, and he’s probably wimpy about getting wet, but I don’t care. He should have thought of that before he signed on to a harebrained scheme that involved coming to Crawford Bay in the winter. I steam around the corner of the building and in through the door at the back. Usually I knock, but today Matteo doesn’t deserve my good manners.

  Two dark heads snap up from laptop screens as I storm in the door, dragging the hapless guy in a suit in my wake. I need to stop calling him sexy, even in my head. That’s giving an inch, and the two in front of me would use that and take a mile. I glare at Matteo. “It might have worked once, but you need to retire as the local matchmaker right now.”

  Matteo looks at me like I’m speaking ancient Hebrew, but he’s smart enough to know it’s spitting-mad ancient Hebrew. He gets up slowly, keeping his eyes on me and his hands where I can see them. “Hey, Callum. Didn’t know you were dropping by.”

  My fury goes nuclear. “Nobody just drops in around here. Don’t lie. Lies make me crazy.”

  A throat clears behind me. “I actually did just drop by. They didn’t know I was coming.” The man I dragged in here like a misbehaving child steps forward. “I called this morning before I drove over from Nelson. The lovely young lady who mans your phones told me when you would likely be in the office.”

  Matteo blinks. “Someone answers our phones?”

  Callum nods, looking more amused by the second. “I believe her name was Janie.”

  The absolute certainty that blasted me in here starts to wobble. Janie is Xander’s niece, and Matteo lets her come in and use his computers. She’s usually around after school, but Janie never does early what she can put off until the last minute. “She must have had an assignment due.”

  “That she did.” Callum smiles. “A geography paper, if I understood rightly. I told her a little of my travels to the Andes and she told me about her new puppy.”

  I sigh and close my eyes as the fury in my belly turns to ash. Really embarrassed ash. “You’re truly just here out of the blue? They didn’t know?”

  Our still-joined hands lift up, and a thumb brushes my cheek. “They didn’t.”

  Of course he’s kind. I sigh, but that doesn’t magically drop me into a helpful sinkhole. I open my eyes. I face the music, always. “I’m sorry. I made a wrong assumption, created an entirely embarrassing scene in front of your friends, and dragged you away from keeping several Crawford Bay artists in food this month on top of it.”

  This smile is punctuated with dimples. “I’m not so easily distracted as that, although I’ll admit you’re a fine distraction.”

  That green-hills-of-Ireland voice of his probably drops panties in all kinds of inconvenient places. Even mine, and I’m immune to charming, even when it comes with dimples.

  Callum looks over at Matteo, still not letting go of my hand. “What terrible deeds have you done that she assumed you were playing matchmaker?”

  My cheeks warm. I was hoping he might have forgotten that part.

  Rafe grins. “He brought me here a few months back to discuss the idea of working together and then casually arranged an introduction to the jewelry maker who lives down the road.”

  Callum looks an inch away from laughter. “And how did that turn out for you?”

  Rafe shrugs and shoots me an apologetic look. “India’s my person.”

  “Ah.” Finally, Callum lets go of me. He steps toward Rafe, arms out. “That’s really wonderful news, my friend.”

  I watch as two men who don’t let any stupid notions of backslapping testosterone get in their way share a hug. I try to get my feet back on solid ground. He’s attractive, in ways sexy men in business suits usually aren’t, and I’m dangerously wobbly.

  Callum gives Mat
teo a hug too. Then, in a move I’m not expecting, he returns to my side, his hand resting easily on my lower back. “I am curious. What set you off?”

  I stare at him, trying to make sense of his question and coming up blank.

  He tips his head in the direction of the gallery. “I was reaching for your art, and then I was being quick-stepped outside and around the building.”

  I swallow. I know exactly what happened in between those two things, but I don’t know how deep his friendship runs with the two in this office, and I’m protective of my people. I try to phrase my answer as carefully as I can. “You said something about how important consent was to you. It reminded me of something I heard Matteo say once, and I jumped to a wildly wrong conclusion.”

  An exchange of glances, and a nod from Matteo.

  Callum turns back to me. “Not as wrong as you think. Consent matters deeply to all three of us, and for the same reason. I’m a Dom, as they are. You’ve good instincts.”

  My belly starts stirring again, uneasy, and unhappy it doesn’t have a target.

  His hand rubs my lower back. “Let me buy you some lunch. We’ll start over with a proper introduction, and you can tell me about this intriguing place and the trouble these two have surely caused.”

  I raise an eyebrow, still trying to steady myself. “You seem quite sure of that.”

  His dimples flash. “I am. They’re Doms, and good ones. Trouble follows them around like moths to flame.”

  Matteo snorts. “Says the guy who’s been at this longer than either of us.”

  Rafe winks at me. “And in the ten years I’ve known him, he hasn’t found a good woman to settle down with.”

  Bless and curse him for naming the elephant in the room. “I would be happy to introduce him to Bee.”