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“Good choice,” she says handing me a cupcake on a pink plate lined with a white doily after I place my order. “Take a seat. I’ll bring your coffee when it’s ready.”
I thank her and find the perfect table near the window overlooking the street. As soon as I sit down, I take out my sketchbook and pencil. I try to save my cupcake until I have my coffee but it’s just too tempting.
After peeling down the pink wrapper, I take a big bite. My eyes roll back. It’s the most delicate, not too sweet balance of cake and creamy frosting. Perfection.
Forcing myself to savor it so I’m not too tempted to buy another, because Lord knows my hips don’t need it, I set my cake aside and start sketching.
On the upside, Theron doesn’t appear on the paper. It seems I have a new obsession. The exceptionally girly cupcake with the unseemly and violent bite taken out of it.
“One double espresso,” The woman who took my order says as she sets my coffee on the table.
“Um, thanks.” Instinctively, I move my hand to cover my sketch. Doesn’t matter if the response is good or bad, if it’s unsolicited, I avoid it if at all possible.
“I’m Parker Rose, by the way. This is my place.”
“Oh, cool. It’s a really cool place.”
I wonder why she’s bothering to introduce herself, then I see she’s trying hard not to be too obvious looking at the slivers of the drawing through my fingers. She’s failing miserably. I almost crack a laugh.
“I’m sorry,” she says when she realizes I’ve noticed. “I caught a glimpse before you got your hand over it and well… It’s my first fan art.”
“It’s well-deserved. Hands-down the best cupcake I’ve ever had.”
“Could I…? Oh, never mind.”
“No. What?” I ask though I’m pretty sure I know what. There’s no hiding the longing look in her eyes she can’t take off my drawing.
“I just thought, if you’d be willing. I’d love to display it. I’d pay you, of course.”
Even though I knew what she wanted, I’m speechless. It’s not supposed to be this easy tosellyour art. And it’s only a stupid little sketch. I’ve labored for hours over paintings that didn’t even get a second look from teachers or critics.
“Here.” I tear the page out of the book. “Take it.”
“Oh, no. You have to let me pay you.”
“I can’t. I wouldn’t even know what to charge. It only took me a few minutes.”
“Well, if this is what you can do in a few minutes, I’d love to see what you can do if you take your time. I’ll tell you what,” Parker adds taking the sketch from me. “I’ll take this as proof of concept but I want to make an order for a proper piece.” She looks around the cafe. After a couple of sweeps of her eyes, she stops and points to a bare spot on the wall between a couple of sconces. “To fit there,” she says.
My stomach turns, churns, then floats into my throat. “I don’t even know what to say.”
“Say you’ll do it.”
“Yes.” My heart is in my throat with my stomach but somehow I manage to continue, “I’ll do it. Do you have a budget?”
“Whatever you think it’s worth. And don’t you dare undersell yourself.” Parker gives me the sweetest most encouraging smile.
This is so strange. It had been drilled into me that the only way to make a living in the art world was in major markets, in major cities. Before I left home, I started believing my parents. Wondered if I should give up. Find a new dream or settle for a career I’d dread getting out of bed for every day. A weekend in Towering Pines and my dreams are coming true.
“Thank you, Parker,” I say on the verge of tears.
“Thank you, umm…” Her eyes go wide. “I never got your name.”
“Skye Cunningham.”
“You must be Boone and Marta’s cousin,” Parker says, excitedly.
“You know them?”
