I set it aside and close my laptop.
Sometimes a writer needs solitude to truly observe, to take in the world without the noise of conversation. Maybe the art exhibit could provide inspiration for my stubborn heroine, or at least distract me from the uncomfortable truth that I’m better at writing passion than pursuing it.
I grab my cardigan, preparing for the aggressive air conditioning I’ve learned to expect everywhere in Vegas. As I head for the door, I catch my reflection: practical flats, minimal makeup and knotless braids. I look exactly like someone who documents life rather than fully living it.
The contemporary art gallery sits tucked between a high-end jewelry store and a lounge. The space is blissfully quiet, with white walls and strategic lighting that makes each piece seem to float.
I’m studying a massive abstract piece when I hear it. That laugh. Rich and unrestrained, the kind that makes everyone in its vicinity want to be part of the joke.
My entire body tenses. Antonio Da Rocha. Meesha’s stepbrother.
“The use of negative space here is brilliant,” his voice carries across the gallery. “Look how the artist creates tension without a single brushstroke in the center.”
I don’t turn around. Maybe if I stay perfectly still, he won’t notice me. It’s been two weeks since I last saw him at Sundaydinner at his parents’ house, where I’d spent the entire meal hyperaware of his every movement while pretending to be fascinated by my ham.
“Jasmine?”
So much for invisibility.
I turn slowly, arranging my features into surprise. “Antonio. I didn’t know you were in Vegas.”
He’s worse than I remembered. The charcoal slacks and black Henley shouldn’t look this good on anyone. His dark hair is perfectly styled, and that crooked smile that’s haunted far too many of my late-night writing sessions spreads across his face.
The memory of our very first meeting floods back. It was Christmas break, and I had walked into Meesha’s family home and saw him in the kitchen helping his mother with dinner prep. He looked up from the cutting board, and his dark eyes held me so completely I forgot my name.
“Jaxon and I have a few business meetings here.” He comes closer, and the freshness of grapefruit, grounded by vetiver, fills my lungs. My pulse betrays me. “Meesha mentioned you three would be here for her bachelorette weekend. How’s that going, querida?”
“It’s been an experience.”
“Where are Jessa and my sister, anyway?” He looks around.
“Jessa wasn’t interested in visiting the art gallery, and Meesha’s been on the phone with Connor for over an hour now.”
“Ah.” His expression shifts to knowing warmth. “Can’t even make it through the weekend without talking to him? That’s true love.”
“It really is.”
He studies me with those impossibly dark eyes, and I feel exposed, like he can read every inappropriate thought I’ve ever had about him.
“Come on.” He extends his hand, palm up. “There’s art by a Brazilian artist I want you to see.”
I stare at his hand for a heartbeat too long. This feels like more than just navigating a gallery. But I slip my hand into his anyway, and his fingers close around mine, causing his warmth to travel up my arm.
He leads me deeper into the exhibition, where the art becomes bolder and more experimental. Our hands stay linked even though there’s no reason to hold on.
We stop in front of a mixed-media piece with photographs layered with paint and fragments of text barely visible beneath thick brushstrokes.
“What do you see?” His thumb brushes across my knuckles.
“It looks like someone tried to paint over a memory but couldn’t quite cover it up.” I trace the air near the canvas, following the lines. “See how the photographs keep showing through?”
“Mm.” The sound rumbles from deep in his chest. “The artist calls it ‘Things Left Unsaid.’”
Of course he does. I step closer to read the hidden Portuguese words, and Antonio moves with me, still holding my hand.
“Sometimes,” he murmurs, his breath stirring the braids at my neck, “the unsaid things are the loudest.”
I freeze, hyperaware of every inch of space between us. Or rather, the lack of it. My mind floods with all our Sunday dinners, the distances I’ve maintained, the way his mother, Carmen, always seats us next to each other like she knows something I won’t admit.
