Page 84 of Call It Serendipity

“Gotta keep those wings soaring, sweetheart.”

A flutter erupts in my chest. He certainly does.

47

My heart is racing with anticipation as Lucy reaches out and twists the door handle. It feels like I’ve won the lottery, getting to step inside this studio and see her finished paintings.

“Are you ready?” she asks, pausing to flash me a nervous smile.

“You have no idea,” I reply, reaching out and cupping the back of her neck. I slip my fingers under her hair and roll my thumb up and down her warm skin beneath it.

With a deep breath, she shoves the door open, revealing the coziest, most inviting space I’ve ever seen. The bay window takes up nearly the whole front wall and beside it is a green sofa you could sink into and completely disappear. The other walls are lined with new and used canvases of varying sizes all set on the ground and leaning in rows of organized chaos. Same for the array of paint tubes scattered around their cases and multiple mason jars of brushes.

But the real draw is in the middle of the room where four canvases are lined up on easels displaying brilliant explosions of colorful scenery.

“These are absolutely stunning, Lucy,” I murmur, leaving her side to get a closer look. “I honestly don’t know what else to say. They’re just… wow, are you talented.”

I take my time studying each one, the details so magnificent they stop me in my tracks and demand to be noticed before I go to the next one.

“You probably feel like you have to say that,” she quips from where she remains in the doorway.

I hear the vulnerability behind her joke and move back over to take her hands in mine. Pulling her over to her paintings, I position her before them and move around to stand behind, wrapping my arms around her and leaning forward to whisper in her ear.

“Lucy Hart, I can promise you that every last one of my words were genuine.”

I press a kiss below her ear before dragging my mouth upward, tracing the elegant shape of it. A little shiver runs through her, a sign that I’m on the right track.

“These are absolutely amazing,” I assure her, moving one of my hands up her abdomen. “I love them.”

As my hand reaches the center of her chest, she spins around to face me. Her mouth is on mine in an instant and we stumble together, a tangle of limbs, until we fall back on the sofa.

“Lucy,” I rasp as she reaches for the hem of my sweater.

Batting those innocent, wide eyes at me, she speaks in a tone so sultry that I can barely process her words. “You told me that you wanted to celebrate.”

“For the record, that’s not what I was getting at,” I breathe. “But it did seem rather celebratory.”

Lucy laughs, then bites down on her lip in that cute little smirk of hers. I pull her into my embrace, and she doesn’t hesitate to rest her head on my bare shoulder.

“I felt very celebrated,” she murmurs against my neck.

I was going for worshipping. I guess I’ll have to try again. And again after that, and again, until there is no doubt in Lucy’s mind how completely and utterly lovestruck I am by her.

Because I am hopelessly in love with this woman in my arms. I think maybe I have been, even before she was willing to give me the time of day.

I smooth my palm over her hair as she tucks herself tighter to me. “Do you think they’ll like my paintings?” she asks in a quiet, vulnerable voice, casting a glance across the room to the works of art.

“Like them?” I pause to shift positions until we’re both lying on our sides, facing one another. Her dark eyes blink back at me earnestly and I reach up and brush the bangs from them. “They are complete fools if they don’t absolutely love your paintings.”

Her cheeks tint pink as she smiles back at me. The kind of smile that radiates a warmth I feel in my bones.

“Really?”

“Really. Not only is your ability to create a realistic scene with nice texture so impressive, but you just… you did such a good job creating the feelings of autumn. That cozy nostalgia you talk about, it’s there in every brush stroke.”

“You talk like you know art.”

“I’ve worked with Whitcombe for the hotels,” I remind her. “But tell me what you think of your art.”