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“Sloane, there you are.” Brenna sneaks up from behind me. “I’m about to make my welcome speech, and I need you all to line up beside me so everyone knows who you are.”
I meet her back at the podium as someone places a mic pack on her. This is the only part of our exhibits I dread—being lined up and named off like the Von Trapp children. I know Brenna thinks it makes it easier for our guests to find and identify help throughout the evening, but I find it a little . . . campy.
Unnecessary.
Cringeworthy, even.
Besides, we’re wearing shiny gold name tags that all but give off Bat-Signals under all this bright light.
Five minutes later, Brenna’s welcome speech is done, and we’ve been instructed to “disperse and converse.”
I scan the room once more, secretly searching for a man who definitely isn’t here.
My heart sinks a little lower than it was before.
“Rupert,” I say when I recognize the petite silver-haired fox in the kelly-green blazer. “So glad you could make it.”
“Sloane, love.” He leans in, kissing the air beside both of my cheeks. “Did you hear the bad news?”
“What bad news?”
My stomach drops.
The disappointed look on Rupert’s face morphs into a contagious grin as he wags his hand. “I’m on a budget tonight. My accountant told me this week that my art spending is getting a little . . . overzealous.”
I exhale, relieved there wasn’t any actual, relevant bad news related to tonight’s event.
“That’s the most tragic thing I’ve heard all day,” I say, feigning compassion. Winking, I add, “You should check out Sour Apple. It’d look divine in your Midtown office. I can picture it over your desk. All that natural light would really make it pop.”
“Would it, now?” He arches a brow, sips his champagne, and adds, “Just point me in the right direction . . .”
I wave him off to the southwest corner of the gallery and prepare to “disperse and converse” once again, only something catches my eye.
In the center of the room, all by itself, and bigger than any other piece in this room, is a Halcyon painting I’ve never seen before. Standing at least eight feet tall and six feet wide, it appears to be a simple candle against a black background at first glance. But upon closer inspection, the body of the candle is made of some kind of folded paper covered in typed words. Squinting, I attempt to read the writing. It takes a minute or so for me to deduce that he used some sort of cut-up and folded menus for the base of the candle.
But not just any menus.
The restaurant menu from our first date.
One from the coffee shop we went to that lazy afternoon.
Another is from the cocktail bar at the symphony.
There are receipts, too, mixed in for variation. Receipts from all these places.
Searching for the placard, I stifle a gasp when I read the name of the piece: YOU OR NO ONE LIKE YOU. In a smaller italicized font are the words Display only, not for sale.
I gasp, lifting my hand to my mouth.
Thick tears threaten my vision, but I blink them away.
Now is not the time.
And I have no business assuming any of this means anything. Artists are strange beasts. They have their methods and their madness, and it’s not our job to understand it, only to appreciate it.
Besides, context—much like beauty—is in the eye of the beholder.
This could be the most personal painting I’ve ever seen, but it doesn’t mean Roman feels the same way. Maybe he’s simply capitalizing on his heartbreak.
He’d have every right.
“Something about this one.” A man’s voice sends a shock to my heart. Turning, I’m met with a tall, broad-shouldered Adonis with a navy suit and a devil-may-care smirk on his handsome face. “I don’t know what it is, but I like it. Makes me feel . . . I don’t know. A certain kind of way.”
Roman.
My heart beats so fast I feel light headed for a moment, but I quickly reclaim my composure.
“Me too.” I play along. “It’s inspiring. I’d like to imagine the candle in the dark is symbolic of the hope the artist must have been feeling when he painted this.”
“What do you think that means?” Roman points at the title placard. “You or No One like You.”
“I’m sure whatever it means, it’s deeply personal to the artist and the person he had in mind when he painted this,” I say.
“Roman Bellisario.” He extends his hand.
Cocking my head, I shoot him a sideways glance before sliding my palm against his.
“Sloane Sheridan.” A thrill runs down my spine before settling in the base of my stomach.
Safe to say he still has that Midas touch.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Sloane.” He keeps my hand in his for a moment longer than expected. “You know, I’m pretty sure I’ve met your sister. Margaux, is it?”
