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32
SEBASTIAN
Walkinginto Art’s Cove for the first time is an experience I’ll never forget. The first thing I see is my daughter’s painting. Pride floods me, and I know my chest puffs out almost comically. I can’t help it.
People mill through the space, eating, drinking, laughing. I scan for Georgia and only see my daughter and Matt, who are deep in discussion next to one of Matt’s pieces with a third man I’ve never seen before. I step inside and straighten my tie, smoothing it down over my chest.
Looking right, I stop in front of another of Christine’s paintings. I’ve seen photos of this one; it was in her portfolio for her grad school application. But seeing it lit up, framed, and hung in a real gallery hits me right in the gut. That’s my baby girl’s work right there, and Georgia made it happen.
As if I wished her into existence, the woman of my dreams appears at my elbow. “You clean up pretty good, cowboy.”
I grin and turn—and am thunderstruck. How…howcan one woman be so beautiful? With her soft brown hair falling in waves down her back, and her navy dress hugging all her perfect curves, she looks far too good for the likes of me.
I don’t even own dress pants. I’m wearing my “nice” jeans, which are the only dark-wash jeans I have that also happen to not have any holes or stains in them.
One day, Georgia will wake up and realize she can do better. I know this with certainty, a weight in my gut that’s as sure as gravity.
“Georgia,” I manage to grate out.
Her eyes soften, and she wraps her arms around my neck. Then she places a soft kiss on my lips, right here in front of the whole town. “Hi, Sebastian. Let me show you your sculpture.” She slips her hand into mine, and all I can do is follow.
Behind the mobile wall holding Christine’s painting in the place of honor, my sculpture towers. As we walk deeper into the space, it’s revealed bit by bit behind the wall. Two clusters of people inspect my work, tilting their heads this way and that.
“We added those lights after you left,” she says, pointing to four spotlights on the ground. “The light and shadows interact with the materials so beautifully.”
My lips tug, and I lean close to her ear. “You sound like a real gallerist, Georgia. All pretentious and snooty. It’s kinda turning me on.”
She smacks my bicep and huffs. “I’m trying to be nice.”
Laughing, I curl an arm around her waist and let her lead me around the room and up to the mezzanine. I’ve worked in this space for weeks, yet I’m still surprised at how good it looks. Maybe it’s the energy of the people in it, or the way the sound bounces off the walls and high ceiling. Maybe it’s the darkness outside and the strategically placed lights illuminating the artwork dotting those pristine white walls.
Whatever it is, there’s something magical about being here, being a part of it.
Georgia says something I don’t hear because I’m too busy staring at the way her lips move. Yes, she’s too good for me—but I’m not going to let her go. She’s made her choice. She let me in. She’s stuck with me now.
Blinking, she tilts her head and meets my gaze. “What do you think?”
“I haven’t heard a word you just said, Sweet Peach. I was too busy realizing I’m the luckiest man in the room.”
She clicks her tongue in admonition, but the flush on her cheeks betrays her. “Come on, you dirty dog. Let’s go mingle with other people so you behave yourself.”
Chuckling, I let her lead me through groups of friends, acquaintances, and art lovers. Georgia could lead me straight to the bowels of hell and I’d follow happily, because I’m undeniably, irredeemably in love with her. Probably always have been.
The only difference between now and twenty-five years ago is I’m not going to let her run away.
33
GEORGIA
When the lastguest leaves (scented candle in hand), I do three things: I lock the gallery door, I kick off my heels, and I lean my body against Sebastian’s.
His arms circle around me, enveloping me in his warmth and his scent. He drops a soft kiss on my hair, then squeezes me tighter.
“I can’t wait to see Christine’s face when you tell her you sold four of her paintings,” he says softly.
I smile against his shirt. “She’ll be thrilled.”
He pulls away, cups my face, and kisses me. We’ve kissed a lot these past weeks—almost as much as we kissed when we were feral teens—but still, every time, his lips make my knees go weak. With his hands holding my face and his body crowding mine, I don’t think I could ever be this happy anywhere else. No one else’s arms feel like Sebastian’s.
