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Amelia looks up, studying my face. “They get a happy ever after.”
“Good for them.” I drop a kiss on her tempting lips. Her mouth softens under mine, and I feel something primitive when she sighs and opens for me.
I’m never going to forget the taste of this woman. Ever.
What if this doesn’t need to end in six months?
“Happy ever after,” I whisper against her lips. “Amelia, do you think—”
“Anyway!” Amelia speaks over me as she pulls back. “That’s my favorite painting here.” Her cheeks are flushed. She clears her throat. “But it’s not the one that changed my life.”
That gets my attention. “A painting changed your life?”
She turns and crosses to the opposite of the wall, coming to a halt before a mammoth painting. It’s a huge, floor to ceiling affair. UnlikeArden, which was soft and small and lovely, this is an explosion of vibrant color. There’s something gray, jagged, and looming that could be a cliff, or a skyscraper, or the lip of a stage. Color crashes and swirls against the gray, like a wave ofcolored light, or a dense crowd of people. And then, just beyond the gray shape, but well above all the swirling color, there’s a tiny, simple figure etched in black.
It’s calledLeap of Faith.
This painting, I know.
I’ve disliked it since the first day I saw it.
“This painting changed your life?” I ask skeptically. “Did it give you vertigo?”
She doesn’t say anything. When I glance over, she’s biting her lip, uncertain.
Her insecurity kills me.
“Hey,” I catch her hand. “I’m sorry. Ignore me. Tell me your story about this painting.”
“It’s silly,” she says. “It’s just...you know how it looks so messy? And the way you can’t tell exactly what’s happening?”
I nod. “It feels risky,” and then I abruptly shut my mouth because that’s probably a dumb take.
But Amelia beams up at me like I just said the perfect thing. “Exactly. After college I took a trip out here to visit a friend. But really I was deciding if I wanted to move to New York. It was such a big risk. I didn’t have a job, or an apartment, or anything, really.”
I smile. If I know one thing about Amelia, it’s that she likes a plan as much as I do. Hell, shelikedwhen I wrote us a fake relationship contract on a napkin.
Amelia wraps her arms around herself, like she’s feeling chilled in the empty gallery. I take my jacket off and drape it over her shoulders. She smiles at me gratefully, then sinks down onto the floor, so she can hug her knees and look up at the painting.
I join her, my legs sprawled out in front of me. From this angle, the painting looks even bigger, more powerful.
But I already knew that. From back when it used to hang in my parent’s mansion.
“Go on,” I urge. I feel like I’m coaxing something precious out of her.
“My friend and I came to this museum,” Amelia continues softly. “And I saw this painting, and the mess, the risk—it doesn’t make the painting worse. Instead, it makes the painting beautiful. Wonderful.”
“So you decided to move to New York,” I say, understanding dawning.
“Right here underneath this painting,” Amelia confirms. “I saw this painting, and I just knew. It was ok to take a risk, even if I didn’t feel ready yet.”
I study the painting with new eyes. As a kid, I hated it. I remember my parents fighting when my dad brought it home, wanting to hang it in our living room.
Why, Howard?I remember my mom asking, frustrated.Why does it have to go here? It’s all wrong for the decorating scheme.
Because,my dad answered.This is it. This captures the feeling. When you have luck on your side, and you know you’re about to win.
Except my dad never did win. Not really.
