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1
SASHA
“Come on, old girl,” I murmur, shifting forward in my seat as I drive the gallery van over the winding dirt road. The terrain on this mountain has been nothing but uphill for miles now, and the poor van feels like it can’t take it much longer. If she breaks down out here, I’ll be screwed.
“You can do it,” I encourage her, tightening my grip on the steering wheel. “It should only be a little further.”
I’m not normally the one behind the wheel of the van. Cory, my coworker and dear friend, usually makes these trips to pick up artwork from the artists. Unfortunately, he’s stuck in bed right now with the flu. As soon as she heard about Cory, our boss Kristina immediately shoved the keys to the van into my palm, informing me that I would be the one making a visit to her most beloved artist—Alden Grey, a man whose paintings sell for tens of thousands of dollars. The fact that I’d never driven the van didn’t faze her.
“We need these,” Kristina had said, printing off a list of Alden’s newest paintings. The titles of the artwork were vague, likeMornings in Umber, but I could already start to imagine what the paintings might look like. Alden paints on enormous canvases in a thick impasto style, blending color and texture with breathtaking mastery. Each time Kristina has held a show of his work—shows that Alden never comes to—his paintings sell out well before the end of the night.
“Make sure you get them all,” Kristina said, tapping the list of paintings. “You know how important this is, Sasha.”
I did know how important it was. And even though I was uneasy with making such an unfamiliar drive on my own, I wasn’t about to tell Kristina that. My dream was to own a gallery of my own someday, and if I was going to achieve that, I knew I needed to push myself out of my comfort zone.
And so, list and keys in hand, I set off on the four-hour trek out of the city and into the mountains.
I knew that driving up the mountain was going to be different than driving in the city. But I never expected the trek to be like this. Up ahead is yet another hairpin turn, the thick growth of trees making it impossible to see around the bend. It’s especially dangerous because the van takes up nearly the whole width of the dirt road. I hold my breath as I round the bend, silently praying that there isn’t anyone flying down the mountainside in the opposite direction.
This far into the journey, I know I shouldn’t worry so much about these hairpin turns. I haven’t seen another soul for ages. I’m not even sure anyone else lives up here except for the man I’m currently en route to. Alden Grey doesn’t just live tucked away on the mountain; he lives so deep in the forest that I’m actually getting nervous about what kind of man he might be. I mean, who dislikes society so much that they seclude themselvesthismuch?
As a born and bred city girl, I can’t fathom living all the way out here.
I finish rounding the bend, see a clear road, and let out a partial exhale. It’s only partial because the road becomes even narrower ahead—one mistake and I could drive right off the side. Cory warned me over text that it wasn’t going to be a fun drive, but this is getting ridiculous. I should have known Cory was downplaying it. One time when I tried trimming my own split ends and showed up to work with one side of my hair an inch shorter than the other, he told me it was “barely noticeable.” He’s a sweet and supportive friend, but not the person you go to when you want to hear the bluntly honest truth.
Which makes me wonder…what did Cory leave out about Alden Gray? All he told me was that the artist is a recluse and not a big fan of small talk.
Great. That probably means Alden is a grouch and a raging asshole.
Shaking my head, I focus on the winding road, just barely avoiding a broken branch at the last second. Beside me, my phone announces an upcoming left turn. The turn is hardly visible through the trees, but I spot it. Now I’m on an even narrower road, and on an even steeper incline.
I cringe as the van’s engine whines.
Finally, the hill crests, then the road levels out. To my immense relief, the woods open up, revealing the large cabin that is my destination.
There’s an old truck parked out front, and I pull up the gallery van beside it. When I climb out of the van, a chilly breeze whips around me, raising goosebumps on my bare calves and arms, threatening to make my nipples show through my white shirt. I grab my cardigan from the passenger seat and pull it on. It’s my favorite cardigan—cozy and oversized, a piece of clothing that never fails to soothe my self-consciousness about my size—and as I walk up to the front door of the cabin, I feel a little more self-assured about the conversation I’m about to have.
He’s just an artist, I remind myself.He might be famous, he might be wealthy, but that doesn’t mean he’s an egotistical monster. This will go fine.
I knock on the immense wooden door of the cabin. There’s no response.
After waiting a few moments, I knock again. Maybe I knocked too quietly and he didn’t hear me the first time. But there’s still no response.
Damn it.
I glance around the yard. Maybe he isn’t home? Kristina did warn me that Alden doesn’t have a phone. This is a scheduled pickup, but artists can be unreliable. What the hell am I supposed to do if he’s not here? There’s no way I’m driving back to the city without those paintings of his.
I press my lips together, turn back to the door, and knock a third time.
“Goddamn it! I’m coming!” a gruff voice booms from deep inside the cabin.
Great. We haven’t even met face-to-face and I’ve already pissed him off.
So much for a good first impression.
2
ALDEN
