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I raise a brow. “Does Matthew know you’re offering?”
Gavin has a bad habit of doing things without consulting him first. “Matthew’s the one who suggested it,” he assures me. “You know how much he adores you.”
“Tell him I appreciate the invite, but I’m going to stay in Aspen Grove for a while longer. I’ll keep you both in the loop if anything changes.”
“Sounds like a plan. I’m sorry to run, but I’m just walking into the gallery and have a private showing with a client in ten minutes.”
“Say no more. I’ll talk to you later.”
“You can count on it, babe. Now go get started on that collection.”
“I will,” I promise. “Bye, Gav.”
After making myself a large cup of coffee, I head up to the loft that I’ve transformed into my art studio. One wall is lined with shelves that house all of my art supplies, including my vast collection of paints, texturing tools, and stacks of new canvases. The other wall has a wooden desk pushed up against it, covered with inspirational photos, invoices, and magazines. My filming equipment is in a haphazard pile in the corner where I keep it stashed when I’m not making videos.
To most, my studio would appear cluttered and disorganized, but for me, my creativity flourishes amid the chaos.
The floor-to-ceiling windows facing the front yard are my favorite feature of the room. There are two easels strategically placed nearby, where I do most of my painting.
I pull back the linen curtains and welcome in the morning light.
Fortunately, it didn’t snow last night, leaving my driveway and sidewalk clear, courtesy of Dylan. For someone who doesn’t seem to like me much, he consistently does nice things, like shoveling and mowing my front lawn in the summer.
Before moving to Aspen Grove, I always lived in an apartment complex, and have never had a yard before. When I rented this house, the owner assured me he’d find someone to do the yard work so I wouldn’t have to worry about it.
When I saw Dylan Stafford shoveling my driveway for the first time, I figured the owner asked him to do it since he lives next door. I admit something is appealing about a man willing to look out for me, even when he maintains a distant demeanor.
I’ve made it my mission to bring a smile to his face, and last night marked the closest I’ve ever come to achieving my goal.
Aside from the trespassing incident when we met, I’m not sure why he dislikes me. It probably has to do with Waffles constantly finding new ways to get into his backyard and Lola often showing up on my porch asking if she can play with him. I think it’s adorable how smitten those two are with each other, but it’s apparent Dylan doesn’t share the same sentiment. His frosty exterior extends to most everyone except his family and Lola.
I met his family last year when his mom, Johanna, invited me over for Christmas Eve. I didn’t visit my parents during the holidays and my friends were out of town, so it was nice to spend time with the Staffords.
Dylan’s entire world revolves around Lola and watching him treat her like a princess is heartwarming. The transformation is remarkable, considering the man acts like a grumbling grouch around everyone else.
I often wonder what happened to Lola’s mom, but I don’t dare ask Dylan about it. She hasn’t been around since I’ve lived here, and Lola has never mentioned her. From what I can tell, Dylan is raising Lola by himself, and it’s the two of them against the world.
I catch movement outside and see Lola and her nanny, Kendra, passing by my house on their way to school. Today, Lola’s rocking fleece lined leggings paired with a rainbow skirt, a purple jacket, and a white pom-pom beanie. Like me, she prefers a vibrant and bold wardrobe, a choice that I can only imagine has faced protest from Dylan.
I hear paws on the stairs, and moments later, Waffles barrels into the room. He scrambles to the window, barking with glee when he sees Lola. She stops in the middle of the sidewalk, waving frantically in our direction, when she hears him.
“Good morning, Waffles. Hi, Marlow,” she shouts, her voice carrying through the closed window.
I wave back with a smile.
On the days that I’m awake this early, it’s routine for Waffles and me to greet her on her way to school.
Kendra appears to be in a rush today, tugging on Lola’s backpack, nudging her along. Lola gives us one more wave before continuing down the sidewalk.
I step away from the window to mix acrylics for the first piece in my collection for The Artist.
Painting is the only thing that’s ever been capable of holding my attention for extended periods. There’s something peaceful about the rhythmic strokes of a paintbrush, the blending of colors, and the artistic freedom in expressing myself. It’s exhilarating to transform a blank canvas into something beautiful and lifelike. The process has a way of holding me captive until I’ve finished a painting.
During an impromptu trip to Paris, I discovered a passion for the impasto technique. Combining my newfound interest with my fondness for flowers, I began creating textured floral pieces. My artwork is vibrant and bright, and every creation draws inspiration from those who’ve crossed my path.
On a whim, I posted my art on social media and quickly discovered that viewers had a fascination for painting tutorials and short clips illustrating how to create textures on a canvas. When a popular influencer shared one of my videos, all the paintings on my website sold out overnight. The rising popularity of my art has allowed me to maintain a comfortable lifestyle and continue to do what I love.
My dream is to participate in an art residency at the Paris Art Collective. Some of the best artists have trained there, and it would be a great way to improve my technique. However, the program is by invitation only so I may never get the chance, but if I ever do, I’d accept the opportunity in a heartbeat.
