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Right now, Sabrina Wells is all the art I see. My eyes follow her around, but I give her a wide berth. From what Grant tells me, this is her first exhibition in this gallery. The last thing I want to do is distract her.
That’s assuming she even recognizes you.
Is she married? I discreetly watch her until I can catch a glimpse of her ring finger. Empty. Why that notion pleases me is beyond my understanding. No ring doesn’t mean anything.
She cheated while being engaged to you.
I remember the last time I saw Bree, and the searing pain the memory never fails to bring explodes in my chest again. Granted, we had already stopped talking weeks before it all happened.
Still, the charred remains of my heart nurture a hope that somehow there was a perfectly logical explanation for what I witnessed with my own eyes.
An explanation she could give if only she would speak to me.
“If you’d all like to come this way please,” says an attractive woman with curly hair, who introduces herself as Dalia Devine, one of the gallery’s curators. I follow Ethan and the rest of our own group on wooden legs. Bree leads the other group's tour starting with the blown glass sculptures and oil paintings.
“We begin with this timeless piece.” Dalia looks directly at Grant who has joined our small group. “Now this is one that I cannot help but feel a deep admiration for the artist’s incredible talent and vision.” She sweeps a delicate, manicured hand over the photograph, almost caressing it. “Notice the detailing and the skillful use of shadows? The baby’s carefree spirit is contained by the father’s serious, almost mournful gaze. Frozen in time. This particular work captivates me in its ability to evoke the most profound emotion. This is called 'Devotion'.”
There are sighs and ahs of agreement. Grant seems transfixed by Dalia, who is already moving on to another of his pieces, leaving those captivated by ‘Devotion’ to look their fill.
“He’s a goner,” I murmur to Ethan, motioning to Grant's stricken look.
“Don’t I know it?" Ethan replies, amused. "It’s got to sound like the woman is talking dirty to him. My brother's work is incredible but she’s practically making love to it right now. At this rate, we’re going to have people wrestling for those pieces.”
“I’ve pre-ordered quite a few don't worry", I reassure him. "At best, it’ll drive up the value.”
I steal another glance at Bree and my breath catches again. I want her. Eight years and a world of hurt later, I still feel the same way I felt when I first laid eyes on her. I need to find a way to speak to her. How on earth has she not noticed me?
After another hour of giving her space and not wanting to cause a scene or embarrass her, I'm all but bursting out of my skin.
I know by now there is no way in hell she hasn’t seen me. I’ve been standing right next to Grant, have had a conversation with Dalia her assistant, and I'm now chatting to Christina and Dennis who seem to know her fairly well. These are people she'd also been speaking to at various points throughout the evening. Besides I'm about the tallest man in this room, Ethan a close second. I tend to get noticed in a group.
She's avoiding me.
Too bad there's nowhere to run today, Bree.
When the exhibition takes a break to have cocktails and refreshments, Grant chats with yet another group of fans, and Ethan has entered into a deep discussion with Dalia. I watch Bree out of the corner of my eyes as she talks animatedly with the glass artist so I catch the exact moment she excuses herself to leave the room. I down my champagne and follow her.
Showtime.
Chapter 4
Sabrina
“I’ve got the brochure somewhere in my office, I’ll go grab it for you,” I say to Carlos as we discuss potential pieces we might want to showcase in future exhibitions.
“Oh marvelous, thank you Sabrina,” Carlos says in his thick Hispanic accent.
“Will you excuse me, I won't be a moment,” I make a beeline for the side door that leads from the large hall to the offices.
My heart hasn’t stopped pounding. I feel like I’ve been thrown into a crazy blender ever since Jordan Farrington walked into the gallery two hours ago. I’m now getting dizzy spells. Every movement takes so much mental and physical effort it's like swimming through molasses.
I've called upon every willpower on heaven and earth to carry on as if the ground didn't fall out from under me, to pretend like I don’t know him, and to pull through my speeches and the exhibition tour. But now the surge of adrenaline is fast receding, I'm now left limp and exhausted.
Getting the brochure from my office was an excuse.In truth, I just needed to disappear for a few long minutes, to recover from the shock of encountering Jordan after so many years apart, before I don the mask of indifference once again. Anything just to get through this wretched evening.
The glass walls separating the offices and the artwork have been frosted over for the exhibition, so I am hidden away as soon as I turn the corner, safe from the critiquing eyes left in the exhibition hall. I take the opportunity to suck in deep gulps of breath.
Walking through the carpeted hallway, I push open the door to my office and step into the dark space. Within seconds, I collapse gratefully into the leather chair. I take down my tight bun, feeling the circulation surge through my scalp, then lean my elbows on the desk and drop my face in my open palms, continuing to take deep breaths. I don’t bother to turn the light on, because the less stimulation, the better.
