SEEING YOU
BY
MICHELLE LYNN
Seeing You
Copyright © 2015 by Michelle Lynn
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in whole or in part by any means.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events portrayed in this book are the product of the author’s imagination or are either fictitious or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Editor:
Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing
www.unforeseenediting.com
Proofreading:
Hot Tree Editing
www.hottreeediting.com
Cover Design:
Pear Perfect Creative Covers
Cover photo: © Shutterstock.com
Cover Photo: Toski Covey Photography
Interior Design and Formatting:
Christine Borgford, Perfectly Publishable
www.perfectlypublishable.com
Visit my website at www.michellelynnbooks.com
Table of Contents
SEEING YOU
Chapter ONE
Chapter TWO
Chapter THREE
Chapter FOUR
Chapter FIVE
Chapter SIX
Chapter SEVEN
Chapter EIGHT
Chapter NINE
Chapter TEN
Chapter ELEVEN
Chapter TWELVE
Chapter THIRTEEN
Chapter FOURTEEN
Chapter FIFTEEN
Chapter SIXTEEN
Chapter SEVENTEEN
Chapter EIGHTEEN
Chapter NINETEEN
Chapter TWENTY
Chapter TWENTY-ONE
Chapter TWENTY-TWO
Chapter TWENTY-THREE
Chapter TWENTY-FOUR
Chapter TWENTY-FIVE
Chapter TWENTY-SIX
Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN
Epilogue
Work Song by Danielle Allen
About the Author
Love Surfaced Excerpt
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER ONE
Amelia
I unclip my plastic name tag and toss it into the trash can overfilled with unopened junk mail. I fumble with getting my key into the mailbox while thoughts of bills catapulting out of the small metal box flicker to mind. Questions ping in my head on how I’ll pay my bills and where I’ll find a job that doesn’t include using sex appeal. My assistant job at Art on Wells doesn’t pay enough to gain a permanent spot to showcase my photographs at a gallery.
My Art Now magazine from my alma mater, The Art Institute, tumbles to the floor. I huff and shove the pile of envelopes into my bag. As I notice the page where the magazine is spread open, my dream jams itself down my throat again. An ad to rent gallery space is front and center. Rub that salt in my wounds. It’s not just any gallery space, either. It’s an elite space at Tracker’s Gallery. Two of my peers who showcased there signed big deals with curators last month.
Reading further, I find out that the space is available because another starving artist had to set his dream aside and earn actual money. I cringe at the cost. It’s a pricey amount that would make the second job I’m in desperate need of even more of a dire demand.
The elevator dings, and I scramble to pick up my things so I can silently weep in my apartment. I spin on my heels, turning right into a rock-hard chest. Two hands grip my upper arms to hold me a distance away, and the smell of citrus clues me in as to whom it is.
“Hey.” My eyes meet a pair of sparking blues lit with humor.
Is he ever in a bad mood?
“What’s up, Noodle?”
I narrow my eyes at his absurd nickname for me. He’s been making fun of my name since he moved in six months ago. In my crazy neighbor Todd’s rationale, Amelia Fiore does sound like a pasta company. Therefore, Noodle was born five minutes after our first meeting.
“Nothing.”
I sidestep him and press the elevator button. My back faces him as I repeatedly pray for the elevator doors to open. I hear the heels of his shoes coming toward me on the linoleum floor, and I close my eyes to stop the tears threatening to break free. He cannot see me lose it.
His hand rests on my shoulder, and my head falls forward.
“What’s the matter?” His voice is filled with curiosity and concern.
Todd’s not a bad guy. He’s just mostly into himself. We’ve developed a business relationship, as of late. He models for me, and I take pictures of his dishes for a catering business he’s thinking about starting up. A six-foot-two-inch guy built like a brick house is nice to stare at through a camera lens for a few hours. I definitely got the better end of our deal.
“Don’t worry about it.” My eyes peek up at the numbers to see what floor the elevator is on.
He circles around to stand in front of me. His fingers thread through his brown hair, and he releases a long stream of breath. He’s not the let’s-talk-about-your-problems sort of guy.
The elevator dings, and my solidarity awaits. I pat his shoulder and go around him. “Just a bad day.” I’m not about to admit that I got fired . . . again.
The doors begin to close, but his large hand stops it. My stomach flips from his strength, and I swallow.
“Noodle.” He sighs, wanting me to tell him something.
How can that nickname I hate so much sound appealing in this moment?
“I got fired, okay.” My finger jabs the four button over and over again, wishing he’d release his grip of the doors. “To make matters worse”—I hold up the ad space advertisement in front of his face—“I come home to this. This space could change my whole career, but there’s no way I can afford it now.”
“Shit.” He grabs the magazine out of my hand and reads the ad over.
“Looks like our apartment might come up for grabs sooner than you thought,” I say.
Todd hasn’t hidden the fact that he wants my apartment. It was my grandma’s, and she lets my roommate, Tatiana, and I live there since she moved in with my parents. It’s rent-controlled, so Todd consistently jokes about how he’ll win my grandma over and steal the apartment. I do feel bad since he pays more for a one-bedroom than we do for a three.
He closes the magazine and hands it back to me. His eyes fixate on me like I’m under investigation. “I’m sorry, Noodle.” He backs up and the doors slowly come together, closing off his sad eyes.
I hate it when people pity me.
One blessing of today is that Tatiana is still at work, so I’ll be left alone to wallow in my self-pity. I’m not a good person to be left alone while in a time of crisis, though. The pantry could be cleaned out before Tatiana returns.
Five minutes after I’m settled in my apartment, my phone rings, interrupting my fifth handful of salt-and-vinegar chips. I glance down and see Todd’s name lit up on the screen.
I answer, “I’m fine—”
“Noodle,” he interrupts, “how badly do you want that gallery spot?”
I sit up straighter on the couch, brushing the chip crumbles off my chest. “Why?”