Vincent had gone back home 3 days earlier to deal with an urgent work matter. I kept to my usual routine, carrying my easel down to the beach every morning.
I had just set it up and was looking down, mixing my paints, when a hand suddenly clamped around my wrist.
I looked up.
Stanley.
I hadn't seen him in 2 weeks. His face was covered in stubble, his eyes were bloodshot, and he looked so exhausted and unkempt he could've passed for someone who'd been living on the streets.
But the sight of him stirred nothing in me. I jerked my wrist free and turned back to squeeze more paint onto my palette.
Panic immediately flashed across Stanley's face.
He stepped closer, boxing me in between himself and the easel. His voice was hoarse. "Sharon, please stop this, okay? I know I screwed up. You d
