Even as he stood there in the gallery in a room full of his work and surrounded by admiring fans, his thoughts were on her. In his mind, he painted long, sweeping strokes of color, dark where the fabric folded upon itself and lighter where he knew it would shimmer as she walked across the room, her body gliding beneath the soft fabric. He could imagine the texture between his fingers.
She turned back, an impish grin on her face as she lifted her hand and pointed to a huge painting that took up a whole wall.
“I love this one,” she said. “I don’t even know why.”
“My best friend painted that,” he said. It was one of Skip’s super-sized pieces. “It had been hanging around for months. When I got the call about this gallery opening I insisted they include Skip’s painting too. I sort of fell in love with it. Never could put my finger on why.”
“Maybe it’s the turquoise and coral colors,” she said. “I love turquoise.”
He’d noticed that about her, even in the short time they’d known one another. “There is something comforting about the colors. I never paint abstracts. This one seems to move with you.”
“It’s amazing.” She stepped closer, tilting her chin up and moving slowly. “You’re right.”
“Stand right there in front of it. Let’s send Skip a picture and tell him what you think. It’ll make his night.”
She turned and struck a pose.
He raised his phone and took a few pictures, then walked over to show them to her. “See what you think.”
“Wow, my dress was made for that painting.” She took the phone and swept through the photos. “I like this one the best. See the way the light catches that long, sweepy part that looks like a wave… or maybe it’s supposed to be a mountain?”
“It’s whatever you want it to be,” Matthew assured her. A few clicks and the photograph was on its way to Skip. “Come here. Can we get a selfie?”
“Yeah. Sure!” She leaned in close, placing her hand on his shoulder.
Her hair tickled his neck. “Got it.”
“Why don’t we get someone to take a picture of us with one of your paintings?”
“You don’t mind?”
“Not at all. Are you kidding me? I’ll brag about you to my friends.”
“That’s sweet of you to say,” he said.
“You’re so humble about your work. Don’t think that went unnoticed. It’s actually quite a nice personality trait.” She took his hand, and they walked back to where his paintings were on display. “I have two definite favorites.” Moving to the far end of the room, she stopped in front of the three multimedia collage pieces. “These.”
“That’s three.”
“Not if you buy them as a set.” She turned to a couple who were admiring one of the other pieces. “Excuse me. My name is Whitney. Would you mind terribly taking a picture of me with the artist in front of these?”
“Honey, help them,” the older woman said to her husband.
Her husband didn’t say a word, just did as his wife had instructed and took the picture, then handed the phone back to Whitney.
“Thank you so much,” Whitney said. “Happy to return the favor. Oh, and this is my friend, Matthew McMahon. He’s the artist,” she bragged.
He could’ve died. He felt the heat rise in his cheeks.
The woman stepped forward, her chin lifted in such a way that not only was she impressed, but she was eager too.
Matthew shook her hand. “Ma’am.”
“Those caught my attention too,” the woman said. “Very interesting concept.” Her look was critical, but then she raised her hand toward a man in a red jacket. “I’ll have those three, please.”
He noticed that Whitney flinched, as if the woman had stolen them right out from under her.
“Do you hail from the Richmond area, Matthew?” the older woman asked.
