Chapter 75 Sunlight
Timothy
There is something dangerous about silence.
Not the tense kind or the heavy, suffocating quiet that follows an argument. I’m used to that. I can manage that.
No, this is different.
This silence is warm. Easy. Filled with the soft scratch of brushes against canvas and the low hum of music drifting through the studio. It wraps around us like a shared secret.
And it makes it incredibly hard to look away from her.
Hannah stands a few feet to my right, completely immersed in her painting. There’s paint on her fingers, a faint streak across her wrist. Her brows draw together in concentration, lips slightly parted as she studies the stroke she just made before adding another.
I drag my gaze back to my own canvas.
Focus.
This is simple. Stay within the lines. Apply color. Do not stare at your stepdaughter like a lovesick idiot.
I dip my brush into blue.
Two seconds later, I’m looking at her again.
It’s involuntary. Like my eyes are tethered to her.
She hums under her breath, swaying slightly to the music. Not dancing this time, just moving unconsciously, like the rhythm lives somewhere inside her.
I force myself to examine my painting.
It looks… passable. Childlike, but passable.
I should be thinking about the corporate battle tightening around our competitors. About the numbers Rowan and Josie discussed this morning. About strategy.
Instead, I’m memorizing the way a strand of her hair slips forward and she absently tucks it behind her ear without breaking focus.
This is ridiculous.
I straighten, inhale slowly, and deliberately look at the far wall.
Then it happens.
The sunlight shifts.
A beam filters through the tall studio windows, cutting through the room in a golden line. It lands directly on her.
And I stop breathing.
It catches in her hair first, turning the strawberry-blonde strands into threads of fire. It glides over her cheekbones, along the curve of her neck, settling against the soft cotton of her shirt. Dust motes swirl around her like something out of a dream.
She doesn’t notice.
She just keeps painting.
For a moment, just a moment it feels so unreal. Like I’m looking at something not meant to be touched. Something sacred.
My brush goes still in my hand.
I stare.
I don’t even try to stop myself.
Her lashes lift.
She must feel it, my gaze burning into her.
Her eyes meet mine.
And she smiles.
It’s not teasing. Not playful. Just… soft. Sweet. Open.
My heart slams so hard against my ribs it physically hurts.
I jerk my eyes back to the canvas as if I’ve been caught doing something criminal.
Focus. Focus.
My pulse is racing. My hands suddenly feel unsteady. I press the brush harder than necessary, dragging color across the surface in a crooked line.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
Her voice is gentle. Concerned.
“Yes,” I answer too quickly.
It sounds wrong. Even to me.
She studies me for a second longer. I can feel her gaze assessing, weighing.
“You don’t look okay.”
I clear my throat. “I’m fine.”
Lie.
My heart hasn’t slowed. If anything, it’s worse. There’s a tightness in my chest that makes it difficult to draw a full breath.
She hesitates, then says lightly, “Are you hungry? Because I’m starving. Let’s go have lunch.”
Relief floods me so sharply it’s almost embarrassing.
“Yes,” I say, this time more evenly. “Lunch sounds good.”
She nods and unties her apron, hanging it neatly on the hook by the wall. She walks to the sink, turning on the tap and washing the paint from her hands.
I watch the water run over her fingers.
Stop it.
She glances back at me, expectant. “You coming?”
“I’ll be right behind you,” I say quickly. “Go ahead. I just need a minute.”
A flicker of confusion crosses her face.
Just a second.
Then she smiles, a little tighter this time. “Okay,” she chirps. “Don’t take forever.”
“I won’t.”
She leaves the room.
The door clicks shut.
And I sag.
My head drops forward, chin to chest. My free hand comes up, pressing hard against my sternum like I can physically calm the chaos inside.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I drag in a slow breath.
It doesn’t help.
Another.
Better.
This is infatuation. Temporary. Heightened proximity. A lapse in judgment fueled by sunlight and music and the way she dances without caring who sees.
I’ve navigated billion-dollar negotiations without breaking a sweat. I do not lose control over something like this.
Especially not her.
After a few minutes, my pulse steadies enough that I can stand upright without feeling like I might implode.
I walk to the sink and wash my hands, mirroring her movements. The cold water helps. Grounds me.
When I finally leave the studio and head down the hall, I follow the faint sound of her voice drifting from the foyer.
I turn the corner and stop.
Lisa is standing near the entryway, handing Hannah a woven basket.
“A picnic?” I hear Hannah say, her voice bright.
“I thought it would be nice,” Lisa replies warmly. “It’s too beautiful a day to stay inside.”
Hannah beams. “Thank you!”
That smile again.
It does something to me every time.
I step forward. “A picnic is a good idea.”
They both look up.
Lisa gives me a knowing glance I choose to ignore.
“I’ll carry that,” I say, taking the basket from Hannah before she can protest.
Our fingers brush briefly as I take it.
The contact is quick. Accidental.
It still sends a sharp jolt through me.
She doesn’t comment on it. Just bends to grab a folded blanket from the console table.
“Bye, Lisa!” she calls, waving cheerfully.
“Enjoy,” Lisa replies, her eyes lingering on me just a fraction too long.
We step outside together.
The air is crisp, sunlight warmer now than it had been earlier. The estate stretches out before us, rolling greenery, trimmed hedges, the distant shimmer of water beyond the trees.
Instead of heading toward the main garden, Hannah turns left, toward a quieter section of the grounds.
“Not the usual spot?” I ask.
She glances back at me over her shoulder. “Thought we’d try somewhere new.”
Somewhere new.
The words feel heavier than they should.
We walk side by side down the gravel path. The basket swings lightly from my hand. She holds the blanket against her hip.
There’s a comfortable distance between us.
Not too close.
Not too far.
But I’m acutely aware of it.
Of her.
Of the way the sunlight still seems drawn to her like it was in the studio.
I clear my throat. “You planned this?”
She shrugs. “Lisa did. I just said yes.”
“I’m glad you did.”
She glances at me again.
There’s something searching in her eyes. Like she’s trying to read me.
If she looks too closely, she might see everything I’m trying so hard to contain.
We reach a secluded patch beneath a wide oak tree. The shade dappled. Private.
She spreads the blanket out carefully, smoothing the edges.
I set the basket down and crouch to help.
For a moment, we’re close. Knees almost touching.
The air shifts again.
And I know deep in my bones that this calm, this sunlight, this easy companionship…
It’s becoming something bigger, somehint that neither of us can pretend not to see much longer.