Page 8 of Take This Heart (Windy Harbor #1)

CHAPTER SEVEN

IT’S BEEN A WEEK

GOLDIE

When I wake up the next morning, Milo is gone. Good riddance. I’m happy to not see that arrogant, history-destroying man.

On the drive home Sunday night, my eyes won’t stop leaking. They haven’t all weekend. Cancer. And I know it’s the least of things to be worried about, but my dad’s beautiful, thick, white hair is one of his most striking features.

“Your mom always said I had a head for hats.” He’d laughed when we brought up his hair.

I can’t breathe. My heart is pounding out of my chest. My ears are ringing.

“Dad,” I whisper.

He apologized before we all left.

“I didn’t want to tell you until I knew what we were dealing with. I’ve got a good doctor, and the odds are pretty good. I was going to tell you. I wanted all of you to hear it from me. I just wanted a little more time.”

“But—”

“I’m fine,” Dad insisted. His smile was steady, but his eyes were too bright. “And I’m glad you’re all here. There are probably a few things we should discuss.”

I’d burst into tears. Again.

Dad crossed the room and took me in his arms. “Goldie. I’ll be okay.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head against his chest. “You don’t know that.”

“I will be,” he said. His hand cupped the back of my head. “Being by the water has been really good for me.”

“How long have you known?” Dylan asked, his eyes shining with tears.

“Just a month.”

“A month?” I whispered, crying harder.

The thought of him carrying that without us was crushing.

I pulled back just enough to see Noah, Tully, and Camden looking stunned.

Dad’s hand rested on my cheek and I focused on him. “It’s not a big deal, buttercup.”

But it is. It’s such a big deal. I’ve already lost one parent. I don’t think I can handle losing another.

As soon as I’m home, I check on my dad and then open the text thread that’s just my brothers and me.

It was so hard leaving him. What are we going to do? He got upset with me for trying to stay, so I finally left! But I feel awful about it.

Noah

Same. I’m still going over there every other day despite his grumbling about it. He’s going to be okay. We have to stay positive—for him and for each other.

I’m not feeling very positive right now.

Tully

I’m not either.

Camden

It seemed to really help boost his spirits that we were there. I’ve never hated being so far more than I do right now.

Dylan

I know. Going back to California tomorrow feels impossible, but he’s insisting that I don’t hand the business over just yet. I’m going to as soon as I can though.

I love you guys. Once I have this week behind me, I’ll be with him as much as I can.

Noah

Sorry to make you carry that alone for a while, Golds. Grayson and I will come often too, until I can wrap up all my projects and be there more.

Camden

I hate doing that to you too, Goldie.

It’s okay. None of us saw this coming, but we’ll get through it together.

I stand in the middle of my tiny studio, hands on my hips, a paintbrush clamped between my teeth. My heart hammers against my ribs, a wild, uneven rhythm that mirrors the chaos around me. Canvas scraps, wood frames, jars of paint, and too many half-drunk mugs of coffee scatter the room.

“You have to be done,” I mumble around the brush.

The installation is called “Fractured Light” and is a tribute to survival, to piecing yourself together when life shatters you.

I didn’t realize I’d be shattered more before it was even completed.

Hidden faces are woven through the artwork—some clearer than others—representing the trauma I endured after my car accident and the concussion that left me feeling so unlike myself.

I don’t even like to think about the accident.

I was in the hospital for a couple of weeks and my dad and brothers didn’t leave my side during that time.

For months after I went home, I still didn’t feel like myself.

Honestly, I still don’t, but I’m getting better all the time. Working on these pieces helped.

The paintings are delicate. Heartbreaking and beautiful.

And they’re due at MIA in six days.

Six days to pull this off. Six days to outrun impostor syndrome.

Each day blurs into the next.

Monday, I wake up on the studio couch with paint streaked across my face and my back aching.

Tuesday, Tully stops by, juggling coffees and yelling, “You need sunlight, Golds! You’re starting to look like one of those pasty art school kids!”

Wednesday, Camden calls from Denver to remind me, “No matter what happens, we’re proud of you.” I cry in the middle of shading a hidden face into a panel.

Thursday, Dylan FaceTimes me from his surf shop in California. He’s wearing a wet suit and holding a mini Dachshund.

“How are you holding up?” he asks.

“I’m not. How about you?”

“Nope. I’m not either. You look a little loopy. Are you keeping your windows open so the air can circulate?”

“You’re the loopy one. Whose dog is that?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. He turned up at my shop and hasn’t left.”

On Friday, I haul the finished pieces into the back of my dad’s truck. We swapped vehicles over the weekend so I could take everything in one trip. I drive to the museum for the setup process, heart in my throat.

Saturday morning, I’m still tweaking. Adjusting lighting angles. Swapping paintings to other spots. My hands shake when I finally step back and survey it all.

It’s done.

Hidden faces glint in the light, half-seen, half-felt, like memories that refuse to stay buried.

That night I stare at myself in the mirror, surprised that I look human.

For all the tears I’ve cried this week, all the junk I’ve eaten, all the sleep I’ve lost, it’s a shock that I look good.

My black dress hugs my waist and flows out like a waterfall toward my feet.

My hair is down so I can hide behind it.

My makeup is covering the splotches and looks flawless.

I look ethereal and somewhat haunted, like one of the faces in my paintings.

“You ready?” Tully asks, poking his head in.

I turn, swallowing hard. “Ready.”

The Minneapolis Institute of Art is all lit up. Fairy lights thread the trees outside. Everything has an extra shine, and inside, voices and laughter spill across the space. It’s unbelievable to think that my work, my heart, is tucked inside these walls tonight.

I stick close to my family. I was certain that Camden and Dylan wouldn’t be able to make it.

We’re all floundering, trying to figure out how to get to Windy Harbor as soon as we can, and this night is not on the list of priorities.

But they’re here with Noah, Grayson, Tully, my dad, Grandma Nancy, and Grandma Donna. I’m so overwhelmed, I burst into tears.

“I can’t believe you’re all here,” I say, hugging each one of them.

“You think we’d miss this?” Camden asks, coming in for another hug.

“We’re so proud of you, buttercup,” Dad says.

I try to balance a flute of sparkling rosé in one hand and the tangle of emotions in the other when I hear it.

A whistle. Loud. Familiar. Followed by: “Ohhh, hell yes. Look at this moody masterpiece! Goldie Whitman, you little legend.”

I whirl around.

“ERIN?!”

She barrels toward me in her signature black combat boots, cuffed jeans, and a blazer over a T-shirt that says Queer and Cozy.

Her wing-tipped eyeliner and red lipstick are perfect, as always.

Her arms open like she’s about to tackle me.

I set my glass down and fling myself into her.

There’s a small gasp from a woman behind us—I might have almost taken out a pedestal—but I don’t care. Erin is here.

“You’re really here,” I breathe, clinging to her like a life raft.

“Of course I’m here,” she says, her voice thick. “You think I’d miss your big artsy debut? Please. I cleared my whole calendar. Even rescheduled a shipment of tourist hoodies. That’s love, babe.”

I laugh, even as my throat tightens with emotion. I haven’t seen her in months. Too many phone calls and not enough hugs.

“You look incredible,” she says.

“You do,” I say, pulling back. I grin and wipe at the corners of my eyes.

Her expression softens. “Hey. I’m really sorry, Golds. About your dad. He came to the trading post and told me and my parents. I know you’re trying to handle everything like the stoic, Midwestern martyr you are, but knock it the hell off.”

I make a face.

She squeezes my hand. “Whatever you need. I mean it. I’m so damn glad you’re gonna be in Windy Harbor more. That place needs you. I need you. Even if it means you’ll put me to shame in Thursday night trivia.”

“You should be worried. My reign is far from over.”

Erin is still laughing at me when we hear a voice.

“Oh my gosh. Am I late?”

I freeze.

No way.

I turn and see her, weaving through the crowd with the biggest smile on her face.

“ADDY?!” I burst into tears again, covering my mouth as she rushes toward me.

“Hey, my girl,” she says, throwing her arms around me.

“I can’t believe you came all the way from Silver Hills! How are Penn and the kids?”

“You think I’d miss this? Penn and the kids are great. They send their love.”

I’m shaking. Laughing. Crying. “I can’t believe you’re both here.”

Addy pulls back slightly, still holding my arms. “This is much more fun than when we hung out while she was recovering,” she tells Erin.

They hug like long-lost cousins, and I blink at them.

“Oh, I forgot you’d already met.”

“You were a little busy recovering from that awful accident,” Erin says. “Are you still driving?”

“Yeah, I’m back at it. Took a minute,” I admit. “I’m gonna start sobbing again,” I say, voice wobbling. “Thank you so much for coming.”

“Everything looks beautiful,” Erin says. “You should be so proud.”

Addy smiles at me and then looks at my work. “I’m blown away, Goldie. And I’m ecstatic for you.” She squeezes my hand.

I lose it all over again, loving my people so much.

And then it’s all happening at once. Strangers swarm—smiling, praising, asking questions. I answer as best I can, while part of me floats above it all, barely believing it’s real.

Then I see him.

Milo Lombardi.

He’s leaning against a marble column and looks like he’s an art installation in this museum. Dark suit, no tie, shirt collar open. His hair is a little messy, like he raked a hand through it moments ago. His gorgeous, infuriating eyes are locked on me.

The breath whooshes from my lungs.

What is he doing here?

I didn’t bite his head off the last night in Windy Harbor, and I didn’t let myself admit that I was disappointed when I woke up the next morning to find he’d already left.

The way he’s looking at me sends a chill down my arms and spine and I square my shoulders, nodding slightly at him. He just nods back and stands there, looking too sexy for his own good.

I force myself to turn back to my conversation with an older woman raving about the “emotional resonance of the hidden faces.” I nod and smile, but my body is humming, hyperaware of the weight of Milo’s eyes on me.

Minutes later, I feel him before I see him.

“Congratulations,” he murmurs, close to my ear.

I stiffen. Turn slowly.

He smiles, not a full smile, just a tilt at the corner of his mouth.

Ugh. Why is he so annoyingly charming?

“You’re full of surprises,” I say coolly.

“Thought I’d see if the rumors are true.” His eyes finally drift off of me and to my paintings. Somehow that makes me feel even more naked.

“And?”

His gaze roams over me, lingering in ways that make my skin feel too tight. “You’re better than the rumors.”

Heat rises up my neck. I loathe how easily he gets under my skin.

“You crash a lot of events you weren’t invited to, or just mine?”

His laugh is low and lazy, like he has all day to mess with me. “Last I checked, anyone was invited. And maybe I like seeing you all dressed up…”

I arch a brow. “It’s the only way you’ve seen me so far…all that’s missing this time is the rage.”

“I liked that version too,” he says, voice dropping lower.

A shiver slips down my spine.

Something flickers in those stormy eyes. “I wanted to see you shine.”

My chest constricts and then a million butterflies take flight.

We’re interrupted by a wave of people who want to talk about the artwork and get their picture taken with me.

Some just want to talk about how much they know about art, but that comes with the territory.

I meet a lot of great people who say such nice things about my work—it feels surreal to know other people care this much about something I created. My face aches from smiling.

And then it’s just a few lingering people. My eyes widen when Milo walks up to me.

“You’re still here,” I whisper.

He closes the few inches between us, handing me a stunning bouquet of roses, peonies, and anemones.

I’m speechless as I take the flowers from him.

“You terrify me, Goldie Whitman,” he whispers. “Good night.”

He walks away and I’m dizzy as I watch him go.

“You terrify me too,” I whisper.