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“I’m not sure what to do.”
“Vanessa, he sounds perfect.”
I rolled my eyes. “Carmen, I know absolutely nothing about him.”
“Not true,” she countered. “You know he’s a hot painter. What else do you need to know?”
“I’m not sure, but I need more.”
“Then get to know him,” she countered. “Have coffee with him. You don’t have to jump into bed right away. You don’t even need to kiss the guy. Just have a conversation.”
Having a conversation with him seemed just as intimate as sex, especially when he looked at me like I was the only woman in the world who mattered. “I don’t know…”
“Vanessa, you know I liked Griffin. I thought our family was being too harsh and he deserved a better chance. He obviously loved you and was willing to do anything for you. That was all that mattered to me, and I’m sorry our family didn’t see it the same way. You should be with him. You should be happy.”
I bowed my head, missing him deeply.
“But he’s gone, Vanessa. It’s over. He’s not coming back.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, hating the harsh truth.
“So what’s the point in staying this way? Staying this miserable? You like this guy, right? Just have coffee with him. That’s not scandalous. You aren’t betraying Griffin. And you can have coffee with a guy and still be in love with someone else. You could even sleep with him and still be in love with someone else.”
“How?” I demanded. “That’s wrong.”
“Not if you’re honest about it,” she argued. “Be transparent with him. Tell him exactly what he’s getting out of you. He can decide if he still wants to be involved. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
I looked at the handful of flowers in her hand, surprised by how effortlessly she’d made a professional arrangement. “Those look nice. You’re a natural.”
“Thanks.” She gave me a smile before she dropped it again. “I’ll let you change the subject, but think about what I said.” She wrapped the plastic around the stems then secured it in place with a rubber band. “Because there are only so many young, sexy painters out there…and he’s not going to be available for long.”
I finished the painting an hour after the sun rose that morning, so I hung it up in my gallery when it opened. I’d always been an early riser, and that behavior was necessary for my artwork. The light couldn’t be more perfect on a clear day, and I captured some of the most amazing pieces that way.
I wrote the price on the tag before I turned the card over. It hung on the wall, the other side showing the name of the painting, along with the date on which I painted it. I always wrote the exact time it was made on the bottom corner so people could build a deeper story around the image. Sometimes they were painted at sunrise, and sometimes at sunset. Art collectors were always interested in those things.
“Beautiful.” His suave voice and masculine tone crept up behind me, so smooth his words grazed across the back of my neck all the way down my spine. My hair stood on end because of the way his tone soothed me.
I knew who it was without even turning around. I kept staring at my painting, my heart suddenly pounding when I recognized the company I was in. The next step would be to turn around, but I paused for a few more seconds, collecting myself before I faced him head on. I reminded myself that he wasn’t as handsome as I imagined, that he was just a man like every other one. He wasn’t special, just an artist who shared the same love of artwork. I shouldn’t allow him to affect me at all, to make me feel anything.
He waited for me to turn around, patient as always.
I finally turned on the spot, my eyes locking on his. His beard had grown a little thicker, and now hair was sprinkled across his jaw and along his cheeks. Deep brown, nearly black, it complemented his dark skin perfectly. With eyes the color of warm coffee on a winter day, he was even more beautiful than I remembered. In a black V-neck and black jeans, he looked handsome as hell in the color. It matched his dark hair and eyes.
Damn.
His lips rose softly in a smile, his mood elevating the longer he looked at me. Antonio seemed to read my moods, to understand what I was thinking even though he didn’t know me well enough to do so.
“Thank you.” I forced the words out, choosing to speak instead of sit in silence. The silence was worse than talking because it was too intense, too potent. “I painted it this morning.”
His soft smile remained, but his eyes focused further on my face. His eyebrows shifted slightly. “I wasn’t talking about the painting.”
