Emilie Rose - The Lottery Winner

She hustled into her bedroom, shut and locked the door, then entered the bathroom and did the same. That had been too close a call. She whipped off the sunglasses and hat and checked the mirror. Familiar blue eyes stared back at her—not the cobalt blue of Logan’s. She’d inherited her daddy’s pale, silvery-blue irises. She quickly inserted the nonprescription colored contacts, then she shoved the box of dark chocolate-macchiato semipermanent hair coloring beneath the sink. Covering her blond roots would have to wait until Logan was gone. She took a moment to don a cover-up then plopped her hat back on her head and checked her image again. Her brown-eyed disguise was back in place. Even her mother wouldn’t recognize her.

She went to find then get rid of Logan. He wasn’t in the sunroom. Panic welled within her. Where was he? And what was he doing? She raced into the kitchen. Empty. Through the dining room. No Logan. She found him in the living room. He stood, fist to chin, studying the paintings and drawings she had scattered about.

He didn’t acknowledge her arrival, and his lack of response kinked nerves in her belly. Sharing her work—her serious work, not the stuff she doodled with her students—was hard. Really hard. The sensation of nakedness returned full force. She scanned her collection.

“I, um...like to experiment with different mediums. Acrylics, charcoals, watercolors, pastels...”

“You did all these?” he asked without lifting his gaze from her favorite representation of the deer family.

She took a deep breath. “Yes.”

His gaze drilled hers. “Why don’t you sell them?”

“Who would want them?”

“Jessie, your execution is excellent, and these have the local flavor that tourists love to take home to remind them of their trip. Would you be willing to sell them?”

She’d never sold a painting and couldn’t believe anyone would want to pay good money for one. “I guess...I might.”

“The same paintings have hung in Miri’s restaurant for as long as I can remember. They’re dated and faded. We could swap some of her old art with yours and market these to tourists. I’m sure you’ve seen similar setups in other restaurants with discreet price tags nearby.”

She struggled for words and found none. As a child she’d dreamed of becoming an artist, but once she’d reached college her father had said, “Choose a steady, reliable career that pays the bills and comes with benefits. Artists starve.” She’d compromised and decided to teach art. Teaching gave her an opportunity to instill her passion for creativity in others. Between the hours she taught and those spent preparing for each class, she’d had little time to pursue many personal projects until she’d been banished to the Keys. Now all she had was time.

The interest in her work was shocking, but doubly so from Logan Nash. “Why are you being nice when you’ve been nothing but confrontational up until now?”

“Because fresh art might bring more business to the Widow.”

“Miri already has more traffic than three waitresses can handle.”

“The staff shortage is a temporary situation.”

Fear battled eagerness. “I wouldn’t know how to price them.”

“I do.”

His offer sounded too good to be true. “What’s your take?”

“My take? You mean like a commission? Nothing. And I doubt Miri will want one, either. But none of these are signed. Sign this one.” He pointed to her favorite Key deer picture. “Bring it to work tonight.”

Her heart beat double time. She bit her lip, dug her toes into the plush rug and searched his face. He looked sincere, and she really wanted to believe his compliments. She was tempted—so very tempted—to test her fledgling artist’s wings.

What would her father and Brandon say? She ached to call and ask their advice. But she couldn’t. Telling them about this opportunity meant telling them about her job—something they definitely wouldn’t approve of.

“Jessie, at least show this one to Miri. If she doesn’t agree that your work could be an asset to the Widow, then you’ve lost nothing.”

Except her pride. Logan had gotten her hopes up. How would she feel if no one wanted it? She had to take the chance or forever regret it. “Okay.”

He nodded. “See you in a few hours.”

She walked him out then caught herself checking out his broad shoulders and strong back as he descended the stairs. She shut the door a little harder than necessary and locked it, then pressed a hand over her pounding heart. She didn’t release her pent-up breath until he’d boarded his boat and driven away.

Logan liked her work. Someone outside her family actually liked her work. What’s more, he thought that others might, too. Joy and pride bubbled inside her. She danced in place, then sobered.

Putting herself out there meant possible criticism. Could she handle it? Then again, if this venture was a total flop, her family and friends—if she had any left after the lottery debacle—would never have to know. She’d go back to real life and leave her childish dream of becoming an artist behind forever.

* * *

WHEN THE KITCHEN door swung open, Miri checked the clock. The restaurant didn’t open for two hours. But instead of one of the kitchen staff, Logan’s investigator walked in. Ignatius was the last person she wanted to see.

“He’s not here,” she told him and experienced a twinge of shame at her nasty tone. Being a business owner meant being polite to everyone—even parasites. That was especially true in Key West. As cosmopolitan as the city seemed, it was truly a small community.

“I’m not here to see Logan. I’m here to see you.”

Suspicion trickled through her like water through a cracked levee. “Why?”

He removed his ball cap, revealing a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair, and shifted on his feet. The big goofball looked so uncomfortable, her protest that the public wasn’t allowed in her kitchen stayed locked behind her clenched teeth.

“Today’s my daughter’s birthday. She and her girls are meeting me here for dinner tonight. I need it to be...special.”

Not even close to what she’d expected him to say. “I appreciate your business. I’ll do my best to resist the urge to poison you.”

“No. You don’t...” He hadn’t laughed. Had she expected him to? “I’m not explaining this well. Bethany and I... We don’t... We’re not close.”

That wasn’t a surprise. “What did you do to piss her off, Ignatius?”

“Don’t call me that. It reminds me of Catholic school.”

“It’s your name. I is only a letter. What did you do to turn your daughter against you?” she pressed.

His cheeks turned ruddy. “I wasn’t there for her and her mother when she was young. I worked all the time, trying to make detective. Then when Bethany was sixteen, Eileen split and moved down here. I couldn’t afford to come down more than once a year, so I didn’t get to see my daughter or granddaughters much. Other than birthday and Christmas cards and social media, we don’t communicate.”

“Why try to change that now?”

“Because Sydney and Chloe are the spittin’ image of their mama, and when I see their pictures online I realize how much I missed of Bethany’s childhood. I want a chance to do right by those girls.”

Sympathy surged like a storm tide inside Miri. She wished Logan’s father would have a similar revelation before it was too late. “How old are they?”

“Ten and twelve.”

She gave him bonus points for knowing their ages. “Have you bought your daughter a present?”

“Yeah.” He dug into his pocket, pulled out a small, unwrapped jewelry box and shoved it toward her. “Just picked it up.”