Page 1 of Halfway to Happily Ever After
TAYLOR SOUTHERLAND STARED, DUMBSTRUCK, AT the ruined canvas. If she let herself feel anything, she’d break down and cry, but the assault was too new. She was too numb for any of that. That pain and loss would come later. For now, she couldn’t do anything but stand slack-jawed in front of the destroyed painting, pressing a hand over her solar plexus and the hole in her heart.
A day earlier, the early morning light filtering through the glass ceiling of the gallery looked clear and bright. Now, illuminating the ripped edge of the canvas and red spray paint covering the painting and slashed through her name on the wall above, it felt harsh, garish. She caught a glimpse of the torn raven under the red paint, and her throat slammed closed.
She’d paintedThor, named for her fiancé Matt, while she worked on her first real show. For the few months she and Matt were apart, every time she missed him so much she thought she’d go crazy with it, she worked on the painting of his strong back with the raven tattoo. He’d gotten the tattoo as a symbol of him starting over. Built from delicate intersecting lines, the black bird extended across his back and over one shoulder. The raven meant transformation and new beginnings, but as she’d worked on the painting, it had taken on a talisman quality, reminding her of the changes in herself. It was the thing that kept her sane while she figured out who she was and what she was going to be and while she made herself strong enough to stand on her own. Strong enough so they could stand together as equals. She held onto the image like a touchstone, and the painting had been the centerpiece of every show she’d ever done. Never for sale—she couldn’t bear to part with it—but as a reminder of how far she’d come and what really mattered.
And now some nameless, faceless person had destroyed it all. Who hated her enough to do something so vile? She wasn’t the kind of person who usually collected enemies. As the baby in her over large, over loud family, she’d always taken it on herself to smooth things out, make people feel comfortable, make friends. Nothing about this kind of targeted attack made sense to her.
Matt was going to lose it when he saw the painting. The closer they got to their wedding day, the more protective he became. Once he saw the destroyed canvas, she’d be lucky if he let her out of his sight again. For a fraction of a second, she thought about asking the gallery manager to help her take the painting off the wall. She could tell her metalworking, bad ass fiancé what happened without him getting hit with the full impact of the damage. She rejected the thought as quickly as it came. He’d never buy it, and she couldn’t minimize what happened. It wasn’t a little thing. It wasn’t just a painting—not to her.
Before she had a chance to second-guess her decision, she heard his booming voice with the out-of-place Jersey accent calling her name from across the gallery.
“Taylor, honey, what happened? Are you okay?”
The fact that he used her first name meant he was working as hard as she was to keep his feelings in check. He usually called her Southerland.
His steps faltered as he reached her and the ruined painting, and watching his expression, she could see for just a second the damage to the image through his eyes. She expected an explosion. Quiet consideration wasn’t his normal MO, but instead of yelling first and asking questions later, he pulled her into his arms and tucked her head under his chin. His body was strung tight. She felt the tension under her hands, but something changed when Matt’s arms wrapped around her.
She felt safe. He was strong enough to hold the world up for both of them, and in his arms, she could let go. She didn’t realize her tears had started until she saw the wet spots she was making on the front of his gray T-shirt.
“Shh, baby, it’s okay. We’ll fix it together. We can make it right again.”
They couldn’t. The painting was ruined beyond repair, but she loved him for trying. And holding onto him while she cried, feeling the muscles of his back bunch under her palms, brought home the fact that she never had to substitute painting him for touching him. In less than a week, they’d be married and she could paint him every day if she wanted and sleep in his arms every night.
“It’s okay,” she said, hiccoughing the words against his chest. She wasn’t quite ready to let go of him yet. She didn’t know if she’d ever be ready.
“The police are on their way,” said the gallery manager, her heels clicking on the marble tile floor as she hurried toward them.
Matt leaned back to meet her gaze without loosening his grip. Looking at her, but speaking to the gallery manager, he said, “Call Detective Southerland, please. He’s with the Bedford Police.”
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MATT THORNE ALMOST lost it when he saw the damage to Taylor’s painting. The angry slashes felt like a physical attack against more than the canvas, and he held her tighter because he couldn’t stand the idea of letting her go. It didn’t matter that it was canvas and paint. All of her work was special, but that picture of him meant so much more to both of them.
He’d never forget the first time he saw it. She invited him to her first gallery opening, and he’d driven across country to be there. Hell, he’d have driven halfway around the world and back for Taylor. The hard part had been staying away and giving her the time she needed to work out her path as an artist.
For months, he’d gone to bed at night missing her so much he ached with it, but none of that mattered when he walked into the gallery and saw the painting she’d done of him. He didn’t have to ask if she loved him too, or if she wanted him there. He could see it in every brushstroke. Knowing that’s how she saw him inspired him to be a better man, to live up to her vision of him.
Seeing the physical representation of that vision literally shredded was more than he could take, but he wouldn’t give in to his feelings, not while Taylor needed him. He’d make sure she got everything she needed from him, and then he’d figure out how to find and break the person responsible.
“Miss Southerland? Mr. Thorne?” A police officer crossed the gallery toward them.
Reluctantly, Matt let go of Taylor, but he kept his hand on the small of her back. The longer he looked at the ruined canvas, the more he saw it as a threat against her, and there was no way he was taking any chances where she was concerned.
“I’m Detective Johnson,” he said, turning his attention from the ruined painting to them. “Do you have any idea who might have done this? Anyone who might be holding a grudge?”
He stared at Taylor, clearly expecting her to provide a list of suspects. Matt couldn’t imagine anyone who’d want to hurt his future bride. Unlike him, she made friends with everyone. Hell, half the people who knew him only considered him civilized because of her.
“No one I can think of.” She had that wrinkle she got on her forehead when she was trying to work something out. He resisted the urge to smooth it with his thumb in front of the cop.
“What about you, Mr. Thorne? The painting was of you, wasn’t it?”
Matt took a step back. The gallery owner must have told the cops that when she called. Not that he minded anyone knowing. He had a hard time imagining the vandalism was targeted at him. Lord knows he’d made enough enemies in his early years, but nothing recently. Nothing since he got his raven tattoo and transformed his life into something worth sharing with Taylor.
“Family troubles?” the cop pressed.
Matt had more family troubles than he could count on both his hands and feet. His lineage included a long line of con artists, grifters, and outright thieves, but he couldn’t picture any of them putting in this much effort to hurt him. Especially since there was no obvious payout. He hadn’t invited any of them to the wedding, something he’d had to work hard to convince Taylor was the right thing, but again he couldn’t believe any of them cared.
“Darling, are you okay?” asked Adam Southerland, hurrying toward them.
