“Hellooo,” came the familiar voice.
She glanced up. “Mom? It’s late. Everything okay?”
“Fabulous!” Her mother stepped into the room wearing her signature heels too high for a woman her age and looking like a fashion model in a peach-colored, linen pantsuit with alligator accessories.
“You look nice.” Whitney noticed that the antique, white gold locket around her neck was the one Dad had given to her on their twenty-fifth anniversary. He’d apologized profusely for buying white gold instead of silver, which had tickled her that Dad even knew it was supposed to be a silver wedding anniversary. “What are you doing here?”
“I should be asking you that,” Mom said. “But it’s perfect that you are. I’m showing my new artist friend, Mr. McMahon, around.” Mom waved her fingers in a come-hither motion, beckoning the man out of the shadows. “I bought the most incredible new art for the office at the gallery the other night. He’s going to help me decide where to hang the paintings, and if I’m lucky, he’ll do something on commission for us in the future.”
Whitney swallowed back the sarcasm that begged to tumble from her lips. Mom had been buying art her whole life. The last thing she needed was help with where to hang a painting. She was an expert decorator. Was she having a midlife crisis? Maybe it was a good thing everyone had cleared out early tonight, or else folks might talk.
“Allow me to introduce you.” Mom pivoted elegantly and waved the man into Whitney’s office.
He stepped into the doorway, looking a little uncomfortable. Wearing blue jeans, boots, and a rather nice suit jacket, his longish hair screamed free-spirited surfer more than artist to her. Well-groomed stubble added to his eclectic look, and for a hot second, she was almost a little jealous that Mom was spending time with him instead of her.
He smiled apologetically. “Sorry to interrupt your work.”
“No worries,” she said, unable to pull her gaze from his.
“Your father and I were at the gallery,” Mom shared, “and I fell in love with his work. Wasn’t it my good fortune that Travis informed us they were having a special showing of his work last week? We went back and Travis introduced us. Whitney, his work is amazing. You are going to love it.”
Whitney somehow doubted that, because her tastes were so different from her mother’s, but she pasted a grin on her face and nodded. “How nice.” She smiled in his direction. “What kind of art? Do you… paint? Sculpt?” With Mom, it was anyone’s guess.
But Whitney found herself becoming a fan the longer she connected with Matthew McMahon’s green eyes.
He could do macramé planters, and she’d allow one to be hung in her office tonight.Is he wearing contacts? Has to be.
“I paint. Large pieces mostly. Landscapes. Skylines.”
He seemed humble as he spoke, unlike artists she’d met before with egos bigger than their paintings.
“Murals too,” her mother interjected. “He might need some legal counsel on that, though. I don’t know.” She waved a hand in front of her. “I’m speaking out of turn. Not my story to tell. Just a littlethingduring the gallery showing the other night.” She looked at him and shrugged. “If you do, my daughter is an amazing attorney.”
He looked uncomfortable again. “I don’t think I’ll need an attorney.”
“That’s good because I’m a divorce attorney, so unless there is a marriage in trouble or someone is divorcing your art, I’m probably not the attorney for the job. I could, however, refer you,” she said politely.
He shook his head. “No marriage, rocky or otherwise. People divorcing my art? Also unlikely.”
“So murals? Like on the side of buildings?” Whitney wondered if this was the guy Carina had gone on and on about. He was definitely good-looking. She couldn’t imagine him undressed to the bare chest, but he looked fit. She swallowed, wishing her thoughts weren’t suddenly sliding out of work mode.
“It’s actually a long story, and nothing to do with the paintings your folks purchased.”
“Right. Well, you can’t hang a building in a gallery,” she teased.
“Would be a challenge for sure.” His smile was genuine, but then he paused. “Have we met?” His eyes narrowed with certainty.
“No. Don’t think so.” She would’ve remembered him. “You’re not thinking to do a mural here at Barron, Winters & Wall, are you?”
“Doubtful. The architecture of this building is too beautiful to disturb.” But his eyes didn’t drift to the moldings or original marble floors. They stayed right on her.
“I agree,” Whitney said. “My mother has oodles of ideas.”
Mom stepped further into Whitney’s office. “Maybe we could do a mural in here. Your office could use some updating.” She turned to Matthew. “I’ve offered to redecorate it for her several times, but she always turns me down.”
“I’m happy with it the way it is.”
She edged closer to the artist. “Please tell her a little color and some art might really increase productivity.”
