Page 29 of The Focal Point

“I just came to see how things are going,” I finished.

“It’s going well.” A sweep of her arm indicated the nearly finished dining room. Finished except for two paintings resting against the wall.

As she spoke, Bailey picked up the smaller one and hung it on the waiting hook before standing back, hands on hips, to admire the piece.

I moved beside her, far more aware of her proximity and warmth than whatever story the canvas told.

“It’s nice. I like the colors.”

Bailey glanced up at me, her smile warm. “I’m glad you like it. I like it, too. I found it at the farmers market a few weeks ago and knew it had to go in here. I bought this one from the same artist.”

She pointed at the large painting, a wash of blues, grays, and soft browns, much like the smaller one.

“They remind me of the ocean,” I said.

“Me, too. That’s why I bought them. I thought they would complement the serene mood I’m going for in here.” She twirled, arms wide, as though to show off her creation, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the infectious joy in her expression.

When Bailey stopped, her cheeks were flushed, and her smile was bashful. She folded her arms over her stomach as though she were embarrassed for having a moment of unadulterated joy, but I was glad I had caught it. It was the first I had seen, and it made my heart soar.

“I don’t usually go for art like this,” I admitted, taking in the larger painting again.

“Like what?” Bailey came to stand beside me again.

“Abstract. Modern.” I offered the extent of my art vocabulary, knowing she knew far more than I did. She had the grace not to laugh at my attempts or even look vaguely amused.

“I think a lot of people feel that way,” she said. “But I think most people lump modern art into this odd behemoth—the performance art that makes no sense except to the artists themselves. But a lot of modern art is beautiful like this. It complements a room without becoming the entire focus. Unless, of course, that’s the point. But even then, there are some beautiful pieces out there.”

I eyed Bailey, though her gaze was still on the painting. Every time we were together, I found a new reason to be attracted to her, not the least of which was her mind. It was a wonderous place, full of information and passion.

She felt me staring at her and turned her head slowly until our gazes met. I felt a surge of something flickering between us, and her eyes widened slightly. For a heartbeat, I almost closed the distance between us to take her into my arms, but before I could, she swallowed convulsively and jerked her attention away.

“Will you help me with this?” she said quickly, the words tumbling one into the other. “I meant to ask Hank to do it before he left, but I forgot, and it’s too big for me to handle alone.”

“Sure.” I brushed off my disappointment and bent down to grasp the frame.

“It’s going over there.” Bailey nodded her chin at the wall behind me. “Okay, ready? One, two, three, lift.”

From the look of the frame, I had expected the painting to be heavier, and I hefted it with far more force than necessary. The lack of weight and my force caused me to stumble back and over Bailey’s hanging tools.

Bailey cried out as I tripped back with it, the movement wrenching the piece from her hands and driving the corner into my temple. Searing pain cracked through my head as I landed hard on the floor, the painting falling with a clatter against the wall. Stunned, I sat there, trying to figure out what had just happened.

“Liam?” Bailey was suddenly kneeling in front of me, her eyes wide and echoing the concern in her frown. “Liam, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I managed, trying to think through the pain ricocheting like a dynamite blast around my head.

“I don’t think you’re fine.” Bailey sank her teeth into her lower lip as she reached for my forehead, her movements hesitant. Out of instinct, I raised my hand to the place from which the pain radiated, only to feel something hot and sticky on my fingers.

“I’m bleeding,” I muttered dumbly.

“A lot.” Even as Bailey said it, I could feel it slipping down the side of my face.

I was bleeding a lot. What was I supposed to do?

Bailey was already in motion, on her feet and pulling something from her bag, discarding the plastic wrapper to the side without a second thought as she returned to kneel beside me.

“I’m going to put this on your head, okay?”

I nodded, then regretted the action when it only caused more pain. But Bailey’s hands were gentle as she pressed the soft cloth against the wound, her other on the side of my neck.