She stopped in the doorway and faced him. “It doesn’t matter what I want, Roman. But maybe working on a landscape rather than painting whatever it is you hid on that wall would help you sleep at night.”
“And what about you?” He looked at her intently. “What’s keeping you awake at night?”
Her heart pounded. “Nothing you can fix.”
Roman saw Brian sitting on the patio wall Tuesday afternoon, obviously waiting for Grace. He stood when she came down the path, leaned in, and kissed her cheek. Roman ground his teeth and moved away from the window. They’d probably be heading off to whatever quiet, romantic restaurant Henley had picked for the evening.
He didn’t like the kind of heat building inside him. What right did he have to feel hurt or angry?
Think about something else. Don’t speculate on what might be happening over there right now.
Picking up the sketch pad, he focused on the simple curves Grace had drawn. He imagined shapes forming, muted colors, shadows. Grace wasn’t going to get a landscape out of him. He’d give her something else to think about. Sitting at his drafting table, he used her line to begin his work.
Sunset was a blaze of bright orange and golds, high streaks of purple that suited his mood. Everything seemed quiet at the cottage. Maybe Grace and Prince Charming had gone out for dinner while he was sketching. A light was on, but then she might have left it so she wouldn’t have to walk into a dark house.
Driven by curiosity, Roman went downstairs. Pain radiated from his calf as he went out the front door. Henley’s tan Suburban was still parked at the cottage. Roman muttered a foul word under his breath. So much for chaste kisses.
He had to get out of the house, or he’d do something stupid. Grace didn’t belong to him. She could be with whomever and do whatever she wanted. What could be better for a girl like Grace Moore than a youth pastor?
Burning up inside, Roman went back to his studio walk-in closet, where he kept all his paint supplies. Grabbing a backpack, he stuffed in a couple cans of spray paint and a hard hat with lamp. He might not be able to climb ladders or do parkour anymore, but there were places that screamed for a piece of graffiti. He did an online search of pedestrian tunnels in Los Angeles County, pulled up a map, studied it briefly, and made a quick plan.
The sun had gone down by the time he headed for his car. The lights inside the guesthouse were now on. Maybe Prince Charming was spending the night. Roman shifted gears and roared up the driveway. Rocks flew from beneath his tires as he pulled onto the canyon road.
It didn’t take long to reach his first destination—a supermarket parking lot. Shrugging into his backpack, he limped toward a bus stop. He had the feeling someone was watching him. Just nerves. The bus arrived. He took a seat in the back, emotions churning, trying to think about something other than Grace in the arms of another man. His calf hurt, and he stretched out his leg. It took thirty minutes to get to his second destination. He winced as he went down the steps. The bus pulled away. He crossed the street and started walking. A few blocks, that’s all, but every step shot pain up and down his leg.
He should’ve brought his cane. After a block, he was sweating. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. He sat at a bus stop. When one came, the doors swishing open, Roman waved it on. He couldn’t sit here all night.
Gritting his teeth, he stood and kept going.
The tunnel was deserted. Most avoided pedestrian tunnels after dark. Sometimes the homeless used them for shelter. This one was vacant and cleaner than most. Roman slipped off the backpack and pulled out his supplies. He put on the red hard hat, pressed the lamp light, and went to work. The scent of Krylon filled the tunnel, the only sound, the hiss of spray paint. He had flashbacks of hell and worked faster. Anyone who walked through here would see creatures glaring at them from both sides and above. He finished one, then another farther down. He planned six in all. Flames around the end of the tunnel would complete the work.
He thought he heard footsteps and froze, a can of spray paint in his hand. A late-night pedestrian? Homeless person looking for a place to spend the night? Quickening his pace, he pulled another can of paint out of his backpack, then another, shifting from hot red to orange and licks of yellow, lines of black. Tossing the cans into his backpack, he took off the hard hat and shoved it in. He zipped the pack closed and straightened. A man stood midway in the tunnel, watching him. Roman’s pulse shot up. “How long have you been there?”
“Long enough.” The voice was deep. “I couldn’t believe my luck when I saw Roman Velasco get out of a car at the supermarket. I’ve had my suspicions about you. We met once, at the gallery in Laguna Beach. I doubt you remember.”