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Medici scratches his temple. "Did he even live in Paris? I feel like I’m mixing him up with someone else."
I shrug. "I’m not an art nerd. You’ll have to ask Nonna or Nonno."
"They’re not art nerds, either."
"Yeah, but they’re old. If anyone here knows anything about Van Gogh, it’ll be them—because they were alive when he was painting."
Medici scorches me with a death glare. "You’re so wrong I don't know where to begin."
We look it up. As it turns out, Van Goghdidpaint one series of sunflowers in Paris. The other was in Arles.
I draw a smiley face on my sunflower with my index finger. "There. Now, I’m notVanGogh—I’mMattieGogh. I put my own unique spin on my design."
Medici rubs my lower back. "You’re my little sunflower."
My cheeks flush as I turn my head toward his. Our eyes make contact—I plumb his dark depths, seeking to understand why I enjoy staring into them so much.
Wow. Just. Wow. Medici’s eyes arestunning.Yeah—this man screamsDream Daddy.
I clear my throat as I rip my gaze away from his. "The nicknames can stop."
"You like to stop more things than you start," Medici drawls. "We can work on that, you know."
I take a sip of apple juice as I wipe my hand on the grass. Medici and I are finger-painting as a fun afternoon activity. When he suggested it, I admit—I scoffed.
I’d never finger-painted before. When Ryder, Cyan, Enzo, and I head to Little Land, we stay in the stuffy pit and hot tub area—we’ve never tried our hands at art.
Truth be told, I worried I’d do a terrible job. That’s why I originally protested and told Medici that I wasn’t in my headspace. I’m grateful he pushed through and encouraged me to give it a shot even though I wasn’t ready.
That’s part of being Little—you can do what you like and perfection takes a backseat.
Medici crooks a smirk. "I’m going to hang this in my study."
"Okay, dude," I snap, spraying water from the garden hose on my fingers. "You’re making fun of me."
Medici frowns. "I’m upset you think that. When I pay compliments, I never draw them out of my wallet of bullying. Only the one of truth."
"Your wallet of bullying?"
"It’s the one that contains my coin pouch of teasing and my passport holder of scorn."
I roll my eyes. "You’re too weird for me."
"I just know a lot about wallets."
I gesture to my painting. "Tellme with a straight face that you’re not mocking me. I can take it. I know I’m not Pinocchio."
"Picasso," Medici corrects.
"Pinocchio." This guy doesn’t know his art.
"Picasso. Pinocchio is the doll that came to life."
A smile forms on my face. "Oh, in that case, IamPinocchio. I’ve always wanted to be a doll."
"Well, I’m not Geppetto," Medici snaps. "I have too much going on to take care of a doll."
I slide the pair of sunglasses that Giosuè lent me over my eyes. The sunlight warms my skin as it drags its rays across it. A breeze blows my hair back as olive tree leaves flurry past me and scatter on the grass.
