Page 27 of Paw Inspiring (Paranormal Dating Agency #86)
TWENTY-SIX
M eara stepped onto her back porch, breathing in the crisp mountain air. Steam curled from her oversized coffee mug—a chipped ceramic piece decorated with paint splatters that Betsy had given her years ago.
The crystal lake stretched before her like polished glass, reflecting the soft orange glow of sunrise. Pine needles crunched beneath her worn slippers as she padded to the railing.
A cool breeze carried the scent of damp earth and early autumn leaves, but something else rode the wind—a tension that raised the fine hairs on her neck. Her fingers tightened around the warm mug as she scanned the tree line. The peaceful scene suddenly felt like a canvas waiting for darkness to bleed through its perfect surface.
Movement flickered between the pines. Meara’s heart stuttered until two men emerged, their Northern Winds Security uniforms a welcome sight. The taller one—Thaddeus, she remembered—raised a hand in greeting.
“Morning, Ms. Adams,” he called, voice carrying easily across the quiet property. “All quiet on our rounds, though we noticed some disturbed ground near the south fence.”
“Probably just deer,” his partner, Johnny, added quickly, though his hand rested on his hip holster. “But we’ll keep an extra eye out.”
Meara forced a smile. “Thanks. You’ll circle back?”
“Count on it.” They disappeared into the trees with practiced efficiency, but their presence did little to dispel the chill settling in her bones.
The coffee’s warmth couldn’t chase away her unease. Meara turned back to the lake, trying to focus on the day ahead. A test run of her first workshop approached—just a small group, but crucial for launching larger retreats. If she could pull this off...
Inside, morning light streamed through tall windows, highlighting dust motes dancing in the air. The cabin’s main living space had transformed into an artist’s sanctuary. Or it would be, once she finished setting up. Meara surveyed her progress: easels stationed at careful intervals, their wooden frames catching the light like sentinels. Supply tables waited for final touches, positioned to create easy workflow patterns. She’d even adjusted the antique floor lamps to maximize natural illumination while providing backup for cloudy days.
Her gaze drifted to Betsy’s photo on the mantel. Her grandmother’s eyes twinkled with their familiar mischief, even in print. A dried lavender sprig—from Betsy’s garden—lay in front of the frame, its subtle fragrance a constant reminder of home.
“I’m doing this for us, Grandma,” Meara whispered, touching the frame gently. Previous vandalism had shaken her resolve, but she refused to let fear derail their shared dream. “Though I could use some of your stubbornness right about now.”
The front door burst open with such force that Meara jumped, coffee sloshing over her hand. But instead of a threat, an explosion of color and energy swept in.
“Darling!” Frenchy’s entrance rivaled any Broadway opening night. His arms overflowed with decorative tablecloths and shopping bags, his lilac shirt somehow both clashing with and complementing his geometric-print pants. A jaunty beret perched at an impossible angle on his head. “We’ll make this the coziest art workshop in history! Though honey, you look like you’ve seen a ghost instead of your fabulous assistant.”
“Just jumpy.” Meara embraced him, breathing in his signature cologne—something expensive and exotic that he swore drove all the boys wild. His presence lightened the morning’s heaviness. “Though I’m not sure about those tablecloths...”
“Hush.” Frenchy draped a deep blue cloth over the nearest table with dramatic flair. “We’re going for forest chic, not starving artist chic. Though speaking of starving—” He produced a paper bag with a flourish. “I brought those almond croissants for you, love. The ones from that little bakery where the owner’s son keeps making eyes at me.”
“Zephyr? I thought you said he wasn’t your type.”
“Oh honey, with arms like his, he’s everyone’s type. But—” Frenchy arranged paint tubes in a precise color wheel, “—a girl has to maintain some standards. Besides, he puts nutmeg in everything. Everything! It’s like dating a holiday candle.”
They fell into an easy rhythm, arranging supplies while trading quips about color theory and the therapeutic benefits of pastries. Frenchy demonstrated how to “properly” display paint tubes (“It’s all about the visual story, darling”) while Meara tried not to laugh at his increasingly elaborate arrangements.
“You know,” he mused, carefully aligning brushes by size, “we could market this as a Zen experience. ‘Find your inner artist while communing with nature and very attractive security personnel.’“ He waggled his eyebrows. “Speaking of which, how’s Tall, Dark, and Growly? Please tell me he’s been prowling around in those deliciously tight shirts.”
“Artek’s been...” Meara paused, heat creeping up her neck as she remembered their last date—how he’d kissed her goodnight with such tender intensity it had left her breathless for hours. “Amazing, actually. When he holds me, I feel...” She traced her fingers over a paint tube, smiling. “Safe. Protected. But also like I’m standing on the edge of something extraordinary.”
Frenchy squealed, clutching a handful of brushes to his chest. “Finally! She admits it! I knew that bear was getting under your skin. The way you light up when he walks in—it’s like watching a sunrise.” He leaned closer, waggling his eyebrows. “That man is walking art. Though the way he looks at you, I’d say he thinks you’re quite the masterpiece yourself. More like he wants to?—”
The words died as silence descended, sudden and absolute. No birds chirping. No wind in the trees. Even the lake seemed to hold its breath. The change hit like a physical wave, stealing the warmth from the room.
Frenchy’s smile faltered. “Is it just me, or did Mother Nature just hit pause?”
Gravel crunched outside—heavy footsteps approaching the porch. Multiple sets, moving with purpose. Meara’s heart kicked against her ribs. Where were the security guards?
The door crashed open with enough force to rattle paintings on the walls. There, she saw one of the men from her first confrontation with German Lopez. The guy was the one Trey had called Miguel Lopez. Miguel was flanked by two equally menacing figures. His scowl twisted into something ugly as he surveyed the workshop setup, his boots leaving mud on Frenchy’s carefully chosen tablecloth.
“Well, well.” Miguel’s voice dripped with contempt. “Playing art teacher now?”
Frenchy yelped, nearly dropping an armful of supplies. Meara stepped forward, willing her voice steady despite her thundering pulse. “You have no right to be here.”
“We warned you to leave,” Miguel snarled, advancing. His companions spread out, boxing them in. “But you’re still squatting on our land.” His gaze swept over the carefully arranged supplies. “We’ll make sure you never host anything here.”
He jerked his chin at his men. They moved with brutal efficiency, upending tables and scattering supplies. Paint tubes burst under boots, colors bleeding across hardwood floors like wounds. Easels snapped like kindling.
“Stop!” Meara lunged forward, trying to shield a stack of canvases. “This isn’t your property! You have no claim?—”
A rough shove sent her stumbling. She caught herself against a cabinet, watching helplessly as her workshop dissolved into chaos. The crack of breaking wood mixed with Frenchy’s protests as he tried to salvage what he could.
“Leave her alone!” Frenchy’s voice cracked as one of Miguel’s men cornered him. He brandished a paintbrush like a sword, hands shaking. “I swear, if you touch her again?—”
“You’ll what?” the man sneered, advancing. “Paint me to death?”
The two security men burst in, immediately engaging Miguel’s cronies. Fists flew. Bodies slammed against walls. A stray elbow caught Meara’s ribs as she ducked under flying paint supplies, driving the air from her lungs.
Through tears of pain, she saw Miguel’s associate grab Frenchy, shoving him hard. Her friend toppled, taking a table down with him. The terror in his eyes galvanized her.