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“Yes, it really was.” She purses her lips and looks at me over the rims of her tortoise-shell glasses. “Kathryn hired me to take care of you tonight because she couldn’t be here. She’d never forgive me if I let a great opportunity like that slip through your fingers.”
I nod begrudgingly. Kathryn Tremont has become a dear friend this past year. She also happens to be one of the wealthiest women in New York and a force to be reckoned with in the art world. As much as I dislike accepting favors or being managed, I know Kathryn is only trying to help me because she cares.
And Rachel is only trying to do her job.
Her phone chimes with an incoming call. “Sorry, I have to take this. Don’t forget, the dean will be inviting you and the other artists up on stage to say a few words before his closing remarks.”
I nod, but she’s already pivoted away, immersed in conversation on her phone.
I spend an awkward minute standing by myself in front of my painting, wishing I had friends with me at the reception. Not that I’m completely alone. In addition to Rachel, my date is here somewhere, too, although I don’t see Brandon’s ginger curls and ruddy cheeks among the sea of attendees. I shift on my high-heeled sandals, arms crossed over the front of my black Valentino cocktail dress as I crane my neck to scan the crowded gallery.
How long has he been gone, anyway? It seems like an hour since he left to fetch drinks for us. As much as Brandon likes to chat, it wouldn’t surprise me if he hasn’t even made it to the bar yet. God knows I could use a dash of liquid courage before I’m due on the stage.
Since I have a few moments to myself, I figure I’ll go in search of my erstwhile date or an adult beverage, whichever I locate first. Just as I step into the cluster of party guests, a wall of firm, warm muscle seems to materialize in front of me.
We collide only briefly, my palm splaying against an unbuttoned, bespoke black suit jacket and the crisp white shirt beneath it. Heat sears me on contact, as if my senses recognize the danger even before my brain can engage. I glance up into sharp cerulean blue eyes that still hold the power to strip me to the bone.
“Nick.”
My voice is too quiet, rough with the shock of seeing him for the first time since Paris.
New York is immense, but to think we’ve gone a year in and out of the same city without running into each other must be some kind of miracle. A blessing, as far as I’m concerned. Of course, I’ve done my best to avoid him, staying away from the places I know he frequents, making sure the chances of our paths crossing are next to nil.
Now this.
Even though I understood there would come a time when our paths would likely cross again, the sight of him is as powerful as a physical blow. That crown of thick, raven-dark hair that gleams under the soft gallery lights overhead. That strong, straight nose and impossibly square jaw, as sharp as a blade and shadowed with the rough beginnings of his beard.
And, most devastating of all, those sinfully lush lips that have been on every inch of my body, and have whispered such dirty, wonderful things to me before I realized everything he said was based on a lie.
He stares down at me, his gaze intense but unreadable from beneath inky black brows. “Hello, Avery.”
As surprised as I am to find him standing in front of me, I know my narrowed glare is ripe with suspicion, if not blatant accusation. All justified, considering how disastrously things ended between us. “What are you doing here, Nick?”
“I received an invitation, like everyone else.”
That sinfully deep voice vibrates along my nerve endings, generating unwanted heat and an awareness I don’t care to acknowledge. I edge backward, craving space. If I had any less pride, I’d be tempted to bolt for the nearest exit.
But I have every right to be here. It’s Nick who’s the interloper.
“I suppose you didn’t know I’d be here too.”
“Actually, I didn’t. Lily made the arrangements. For some reason, she neglected to mention the guest list of attending artists. I’ll be taking the matter up with her in the morning.”
He doesn’t sound pleased with his assistant, and I have to wonder if the impeccably efficient Lily Fontana could have lost some of her edge the past year. I doubt it, but I can’t imagine why she’d think putting Nick and me within a city block of each other was anything but a bad idea.
“I apologize, Avery. If I had known you’d be here, I promise you, I wouldn’t have come.”
God, he really means that. It’s hard to deny his earnestness. For all his past deceptions, I recognize his honesty now. I’m not sure why I don’t feel more relief, some sense of satisfaction that he can at least acknowledge the wreckage that lies between us.
Instead, all I feel as we stand together for the first time in so long is the racing beat of my heart. The streaks of uninvited, unwanted awareness. The dull ache of regret over everything that might have been.
Nick’s gaze takes a while to leave mine. When it does, his eyes flick past my shoulder to the painting hanging on the wall behind me. He moves toward it, studying the canvas. My breath lodges in the center of my chest as I watch him take in the large abstract depiction of silvery feathers, turbulent blue water, and flame-filled orange sky.
He swivels his head toward me, a flicker of surprise in his expression. “Icarus.”
The painting is more than the myth, and we both know it. I acknowledge with a nod.
He hasn’t seen it before, even though I first began working on this piece soon after we took our first getaway together. Our Florida Keys sail aboard Nick’s beautiful boat, Icarus, seems like a hundred years ago now. So much has happened since then. So many lies between us, so much pain.
