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Wow. Even my mother didn’t get a solo exhibition until she was well established. “Yes.”
“As part of our representation,” she says, turning back to the painting, “we also provide a social media manager for you. I looked at your Instagram this morning. I noticed you haven’t posted in a while.”
“I don’t really post very often.”
“You have an impressive following.”
“I do?” I’ve only posted twenty or so times, mostly photos of things like a red leaf on green grass or a flower in the sun. Just slightly-banal images that catch the light in a certain way or somehow seem photo-worthy. Last time I checked, maybe a month or so ago, I had around two hundred followers.
But now I’m curious. I take my phone out of my pocket and bring up my Instagram account.
“What the…?” Three million followers. “When did this happen?”
Imogen’s looking at my dad again, stealing little glances. “If I had to guess, it’s probably because…well, that photo of you and Elias went viral. And once people knew that the two of you were together, they did some research and it wasn’t hard to find out that you’re the coach’s daughter and also an art student. And that one of your paintings is going to be included in the freshman art exhibition. And that the styles of that painting and the one from Elias’s post were very similar. And that, of course, your mother was Adelaide Fox. So they figured out the painting from the post was yours.”
Whoa.
“Have you checked the comments section of Elias’s post lately, Zara?” Imogen asks me.
“No.”
“The offers are up to one million dollars for the painting. And people want to know if you have others. We can make sure we showcase your work to the highest possible standard. I’ll go through our partnership terms before I leave tonight, but I’m confident we can offer you a very generous package. I can leave it with you, so that you and your advisors can look over it. You could let me know in, say, a week?”
“That sounds perfect.”
“Elias can take a look at it,” my dad says. “The kid obviously knows his way around a spreadsheet.”
Imogen giggles lightly and it’s not the sound I would have expected from the cut-throat pinnacle of the New York art scene, but she’s obviously elated, possibly for more than one reason.
“Why don’t you stay for dinner, Imogen,” my dad suggests. “We can talk more about it over some lasagna. I bet you’re parched after your trip from New York. How about a drink?”
“I’d love one.”
“We’ll be down in a minute,” I tell them, as the two of them head back downstairs.
We wait until the sound of their voices disappears down below and into the kitchen. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say Imogen MacBeth was flirting with my dad.”
Elias closes the door and locks it. “Nothing wrong with second chances.” He takes my hands and leans down to kiss me. “I told you everything would be okay.”
“I should always listen to my quarterback.”
Thank you thank you thank you.
For bringing me a burly lovestruck romantic.
For my dad’s change of heart.
For Imogen MacBeth.
Elias takes my bottom lip between his teeth, biting gently. His tongue slips into my mouth and I’m dizzy from the sublime taste of him.
“I love you,” he whispers. “I’m going make all your dreams come true.”
“I think you already have,” I whisper back.
He licks my neck in a slow, sexy claim. Then he drops to his knees and pushes my skirt up. “I’ll see those dreams and raise you one killer orgasm.”
“Elias…oh.” I grab handfuls of his hair as he pushes my panties to the side and licks me in an open-mouthed kiss.
