EMMA

I was never good at waiting.

Uncertainty always gnawed at me, a weight pressing on my chest as I braced for the other shoe to drop. And lately, that weight had become unbearable.

Ever since Eric confessed to selling the painting—and refused to reveal the buyer's identity—things between us had been strained.

I didn't doubt his intentions. Eric was doing what he thought was best for both of us. That was exactly what I was trying to do, too. But it was clear we were navigating the same maze on entirely different paths. And neither of us was willing to ask for directions.

If we could just talk—really talk—we might find a solution. But no matter how hard I tried, Eric was adamant about keeping me in the dark. He believed I should let go, move on, and focus on the life I had always dreamed of having.

It was like he didn't know me at all.

Between the two of us, I was the one with the sharper instincts, the one who thrived in the shadows. So, I did what I did best. I reached out to my street contacts—the ones who owed me favors and would keep their mouths shut. Especially to Eric.

No one knew who was behind the Met job. I was certain Eric hadn't shared his identity with the fence he had used, knowing exactly what was at stake. And by asking about the painting, I knew was throwing suspicion off myself. Why would a thief chase down a painting they had already stolen and sold? It made no sense.

Everyone would just assume I liked the painting and wanted to get my hands on it. And well, my contacts were eager to find the painting, hoping to cut themselves into a deal if I managed to track it down.

And now, all I could do was wait.

Speaking of waiting... Where was Jake?

I had been standing in the parking lot for what felt like hours, though it had only been a few minutes. The cool March breeze rustled my hair, sending a tingling chill across my skin. It was refreshing, though it did little to calm the storm of thoughts in my head.

Jake had casually mentioned how swamped he had been with work, and that tiny admission had nearly sent my mind into overdrive. His busy schedule was directly proportional to my mind racing with all sorts of worst-case scenarios.

What if he was closing in on the truth? What if he already knew who had bought the painting?

I shook my head, forcing the dark thoughts aside. I needed to know what Jake was up to, and for that, I had to stay sharp.

We had tried to meet several times in the past few weeks, but he always canceled, apologizing for late nights or last-minute emergencies. So I had promised him a surprise, something to help him unwind.

It wasn't entirely a lie—but, of course, I had my own reasons. My ultimate goal was to get him to talk about the case. To do that, I needed his trust.

And well, that was the special thing about trust. It could be given, taken, and, if you were clever enough, stolen.

Finally, I spotted Jake's SUV pulling into the lot. I took a deep breath and walked toward it. As he stepped out, wearing casual clothes as I had suggested, a grin spread across my face.

He was dressed in a black hoodie and light-wash jeans, somehow still pulling off that effortless charm he always carried. But I probably should have warned him to wear something old—this surprise was bound to get messy.

As he approached, his tousled brown hair caught in the breeze, and for a moment, all my worries went to the back of my mind.

"Hey, sorry for keeping you waiting," he said, flashing me a warm smile.

"No worries," I replied, keeping my tone light. "I've been enjoying the fresh air."

We walked together toward the building's entrance. I couldn't help stealing glances at him. In his casual clothes, he seemed less like the intimidating FBI agent out to get me and more... approachable.

"So, where have you been?" I asked, feigning nonchalance.

He sighed. "Just tied up with work. You know how it is."

Of course. Busy plotting my downfall, no doubt.

I felt a knot tighten in my stomach, but I forced myself to smile. "Well, I hope this surprise will help take your mind off things for a little while."

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh? And what might that be?"

I grinned. "You'll have to wait and see."

Pushing open the door, the sound of lively chatter and soft jazz greeted us. I rounded the corner and held the door for Jake. I gestured for him to enter with a sweeping motion with my hand. He stepped inside, and I smirked when I saw his eyes widen as he took in the scene before him.

Volunteers were scattered around the retirement home, painting the walls and hanging colorful decorations. Elderly residents chatted and laughed, some wielding brushes to add their own touches.

"Wow," Jake said. "I had no idea this was what you had planned."

"Art therapy," I said, gesturing to the vibrant walls. "I volunteer here a lot, and I felt like the place needed a spark—something to brighten the residents' spirits. So, I rallied some help to breathe new life into it."

Jake continued to take in the scene, his green eyes lighting up. "It's amazing. I can't believe you put all this together."

I smiled, pride swelling in my chest. "Well, I wasn't alone." I motioned to the other volunteers. "And some of the residents helped too. They're quite talented, you know."

Jake nodded, impressed. "This is really something."

"It's amazing what a little creativity can do," I said. "And getting your hands dirty is the best way to forget your worries, don't you think?"

Before he could reply, I took his hand and led him to a table overflowing with brushes and supplies.

"Well, I can't deny that I'm passionate about art," Jake said. "But I should warn you—I can barely manage a stick figure."

I laughed, offering him a brush. "Who knows? You might discover a hidden talent. And if things go sideways, we'll just call it avant-garde abstract art."

"I like your optimism." Jake chuckled, taking the brush.

He then glanced around the room, and I caught the subtle warmth in his expression. Volunteers bustled about, handing out paint supplies, while the elderly residents laughed and chatted, some adding whimsical touches to the walls with their brushes.

"I must admit, it's a nice change of pace from staring at endless stacks of paperwork."

I beamed at him. "That's the idea. Plus, seeing the smiles on everyone's faces makes it all worth it."

"You're right," he said. "Let's get to work."

Grinning, I pulled out my art supplies and returned to a piece I'd started earlier—a canvas depicting the breathtaking coastline of the Côte d'Azur. Unlike the others, I wasn't painting directly on the wall; this would hang as a focal piece later.

As my brush glided over the canvas, memories of my parents and our time in that sunlit paradise flooded my mind. I could almost feel the warmth of the white quartz sand beneath my feet, hear the distant waves rolling against the shore, and see the azure expanse of the Mediterranean glistening under a cloudless sky.

Meanwhile, Jake wrestled with his painting, though he seemed to be enjoying himself despite the struggle. He laughed and traded jokes with the other volunteers and residents, his easygoing charm filling the room. I found myself smiling, unable to ignore how at ease and genuinely relaxed he seemed.

We continued painting until an elderly man in a wheelchair approached us.

"Hello there, young ones," he said, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "What are you painting?"

"Oh, hello, Mr. Anderson," I greeted him warmly. "I'm working on a seascape, and Jake here... well, we're still figuring that out."

Jake chuckled, setting his brush down. "I'm just here for moral support. Emma's the real artist—I'm just trying not to embarrass myself."

Mr. Anderson's laugh was warm and rich. "The beauty of art, my friend, is that it doesn't matter how it looks. It's about the joy of creating something. You never know—you might surprise yourself."

Then, leaning back in his chair, a sly smile spread across his face. "You two make a lovely couple."

His words caught me off guard, and my cheeks burned. I glanced at Jake, who was watching me, an unreadable expression flickering in his eyes.

"Well, we're just getting to know each other," Jake said smoothly.

Mr. Anderson chuckled knowingly. "That's how it always starts, isn't it? Next thing you know, you're inseparable."

His gaze shifted to me, a twinkle of mischief dancing in his eyes. "And Emma's never brought a man here before. That speaks volumes."

"Come on now, Mr. Anderson," I said, forcing a laugh. "We're just friends."

"Friends, my foot," Mr. Anderson scoffed, shaking his head with the certainty of someone who had seen it all. "I've been around long enough to know better. Two people don't look at each other like that unless there's something there." His voice softened, and a tender smile graced his face. "I was married to my sweetheart for 57 years. You learn a thing or two about love in that time."

My cheeks flushed, heat creeping up to my ears as I felt Jake's gaze on me. Instead of meeting it, I focused on Mr. Anderson, grateful for the distraction. "I know. It was love at first sight, from what I remember."

Mr. Anderson's face lit up as he nodded, the memory of his late wife clearly bringing him joy even through the grief. I always loved hearing him recount their story. She was his first love, and they had built a life together filled with happiness, the kind of love that weathered time until death finally tore them apart.

A pang of envy struck me—not just for the kind of love they had shared, but for the simplicity of it. No games, no second-guessing, just two people choosing each other, day after day.

I risked a glance at Jake, and our eyes met for a brief moment. There was no mistaking the warmth there, the quiet patience in his expression that unsettled and comforted me all at once.

Jake wasn't the type to rush into things, and I respected that about him. He seemed to understand the value of taking his time, of letting things unfold naturally. It was one of the many things I had come to appreciate about him.

Lately, we had been spending more time together—whether in person or through countless texts that carried on late into the night. Talking, laughing, sharing little pieces of ourselves. For now, it was easy to call it friendship. And while neither of us had pushed for more, there was an unspoken something lingering between us, waiting. Something neither of us seemed quite ready to name.

Mr. Anderson pulled me from my thoughts as he reached for my hand, patting it gently. "Don't let a good thing pass you by, Em-Gem."

My blush deepened at the nickname, but I managed a small smile, the kind that said you're impossible, but I adore you.

He winked at me, then cast one last knowing smile at Jake before turning and walking away, leaving the two of us alone. The quiet that followed felt almost too loud.

Jake's voice broke the silence, light and teasing. "Em-Gem?"

I groaned inwardly but tried to play it off. "It's a nickname he gave me a long time ago."

His lips curved into that infuriatingly charming smirk. "Because you're a gem, I take it?"

I shrugged, my voice deliberately casual. "Something like that."

Jake's smile softened. "Well, he's not wrong."

Something in his tone—a sincerity I didn't deserve—tightened my chest. For a second, I wanted to ask what he saw when he looked at me, but I pushed the thought aside. Whatever answer he might give felt too dangerous.

"Well," I said, forcing a playful tone, "if you're done buttering me up, we still have walls to paint."

Jake laughed, his eyes twinkling. "You're right. Let's get back to work."

As we resumed painting, I found my gaze drifting to Jake now and then. He seemed focused, but I noticed the occasional glance he stole in my direction.

At that point, I should have felt triumphant that my plan was working, that Jake was letting his guard down. Instead, a nagging unease clung to me, a storm cloud on the edge of breaking. And the worst part was that I couldn't tell if it was guilt... or something I didn't dare put a name to.