Page 181 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

At the art.

At his work.

At the way the pieces command the room without shouting for it.

At the way they make even the richest, most jaded crowd quiet for a moment.

I see people standing in front of his sunflowers like they’re being moved by something they didn’t expect.

I see a woman with tears in her eyes studying a leather panel.

I see a man in a watch that costs more than my first car run his fingertips lightly along the edge of a carved wood frame like he’s afraid to break the spell.

And I realize—this room is lucky he showed up.

Not the other way around.

Greyson doesn’t need Manhattan’s approval.

Manhattan needs Greyson’s beauty.

The whole world needs it.

My heart swells so hard it feels like my ribs might crack.

He approaches me and takes my hand, exhaling like he only just found his breath.

I squeeze his hand and he glances down at me, that flash of something intimate and private passing between us.

Like we’re the only two people in the room.

“I didn’t know you did this many,” I whisper, nodding toward the sunflower pieces.

His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Seems I got stuck on a theme.”

I laugh softly, overwhelmed.

“I can’t believe you did all this,” I trail off, because what can I even say?

Thank you for making me into art?

Thank you for letting me matter?

Thank you for seeing me?

Across the room, a woman with perfectly coiffed silver hair is practically haggling with the gallery owner.

“But I must have this,” she insists, voice sharp with entitlement. “Name your price.”

The owner gives a polite smile that says no matter how rich you are, you still don’t get everything you want.

“I’m sorry,” she says smoothly, “but that piece has already sold.”

I glance at the plaque.

A small black sticker sits beside the title.