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It was nice staying busy. Keeping myself occupied helped the throbbing pain in my heart. Carmen suggested I hook up with someone since it’d been almost two months since Bones left. Finding a new guy might help me forget about the old one.
But I still wasn’t ready, not even for meaningless sex.
I wondered if Bones had already been with someone else. Judging by his past promiscuity, he’d probably started screwing other people within two weeks of our breakup. Of course, the thought made me jealous and sad, but at the same time, I knew those women didn’t mean anything to him. They were just something to cure the loneliness, something to get off to. I was the only woman who would ever mean anything to him—forever.
I hung up a new painting in the gallery, an image of the city from the outside fields. It showed the beautiful church, the tall buildings, and a few pedestrians on the sidewalk. I took the picture early in the morning, right as the sun rose, and there were only a few cars parked against the curb. It was one of my favorites, a perfect view of the city.
The door to the gallery opened, and heavy footfalls sounded behind me.
I’d stopped hoping that Bones would stop by to check on me. Six weeks had come and gone, and I never heard from him. If he lasted this long without contacting me, then he would never contact me again.
I turned around to see a tall man standing in front of one of my paintings. He wasn’t my usual clientele because he was much younger than the people that came in here. He looked to be my brother’s age, possibly a few years younger or older. He stood with his hands in the pockets of his dark jeans. The pants hugged his muscled thighs and his tight ass, and his olive green t-shirt stretched across his shoulder blades and over his muscular arms. He had dark skin like mine and black hair that reminded me of my father’s. Short and styled, it was simple. I couldn’t see his face because he was turned the other way.
For a second, I didn’t address him, unsure what I should say. It was rare to see a young man searching for artwork, especially when he was alone. Sometimes young couples came in looking for something to take home since they were on their honeymoon. But everyone else was much older. “Let me know if you need anything.” He seemed focused on looking at my paintings, so I didn’t want to intrude on his inspection. It was an image of my favorite bakery, a little place that had planters lined with colorful flowers everywhere. They had amazing coffee, but the unique architecture and lively garden made it a painter’s dream.
He turned my way slightly, showing his face for the first time. With a hard jawline, masculine cheekbones, and brilliant brown eyes, he was a beautiful Italian man. His expression was hard, like he’d been focused just a moment ago. His eyes settled on me, and slowly, a soft smile formed on his lips. “Thank you. This is the bakery I go to every morning. It’s even more stunning in the painting.” He turned back to the image, a picture I’d painted just a few days ago.
“It’s my favorite place too.” I came up to his side slowly, self-conscious that I’d skipped the makeup and threw my hair in a bun. My t-shirt was baggy because of the weight I’d lost, and my jeans started to feel loose too.
His eyes moved across the colors, settling on the planter box full of red geraniums. He appreciated every single inch, studied it like he was looking for something specific. “How much is it?”
I’d just hung it up, so I hadn’t had a chance to put up the price. “Nine hundred euro.”
He didn’t have a reaction to the amount. “I’ll take it.”
It was the quickest sale I’d ever made. “Really?”
“Absolutely.” He lifted the painting off the wall and held it between his large hands. He examined it again, getting another look before he handed it off to me. “It’s beautiful. I have just the spot for it.”
“That’s great. Let me just wrap it up for you.”
“No need. I live a few blocks away.” He pulled out his wallet and handed me his card.
I took it, paying attention to the name.
Antonio Tassone.
I wasn’t sure why I looked or cared, but for some reason, I did. I ran his card and handed it back to him with the receipt. “Thanks for coming in. Enjoy your painting.”
“I will.” He gave me a handsome smile, the kind that could pick up a woman instantly. His eyes seemed to take me in a moment longer, like he saw something he wanted to remember. Then he carried his painting out of the store and disappeared past the window.
