She stared at him as if he had horns growing from his head. “Why not?”
“No one will want these.”
“Again,why not? They’re gorgeous.”
“I love you for saying that, but—”
“But what?”
“These aren’t... I mean, they’re okay for your bakery...”
She snorted. “You’re a perfectionist.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
He waved at the room—the lone easel in the center, the rickety table bearing his collection of twisted paint tubes and the glass jars containing his army of brushes. “Look at this place. How can you call me a perfectionist?”
“Being one myself, I know one when I see one. You think because these don’t meet some sort of gold standard you created for yourself that they have to hide, but you’re wrong. You need to share these.”
He searched his mind, trying to find something that would make light of her comment, but she wasn’t paying attention to him. She was flicking through the canvases, her eyes wide with excitement.
Having her in his studio made him feel naked and exposed. Why had he invited her in here? He should have selected the paintings before she arrived, then he could have just handed them to her and they wouldn’t be here, alone. She needed to leave. Maybe it would help if Hannah returned.
“You need a larger gallery,” she said, looking at him over her shoulder.
He tightened his lips. “These aren’t for public consumption.”
“You’re being selfish,” she told him. “You’re stuck in a donut hole.”
“Donut hole? What are you talking about?”
“Donut holes,” she repeated. “They’re delicious, even though they’re the byproduct of something larger. For some people, the donut hole is exactly what they need.”
He laughed to show her that what she’d said didn’t rankle, even though it had. “I think these paintings are exactly what you need.” He held up the ones she’d selected and motioned for the door, anxious to get her out of his studio.
“You’re right,” she said, shuffling her feet after him. “But I really like these ones, too.” She pointed at a pair of seascapes.
He held the door open for her to pass through. “You can always switch them out.”
“Why are you being so nice?” She stood beside him in the hall, and the walls seemed to close in around them, making him feel trapped.
“I’m a nice guy.” He locked the studio door behind them.
He couldn’t be attracted to her, could he? She looked different without her apron on. Because she left so early for work, he typically only saw her at the end of the day—her hair frizzy, curling and damp from humidity, her skin dusted with flour and carrying the smell of yeasty fresh-baked bread.
Nothing like Allison, who had been long, lean, and wiry. Allie had reminded him of a hog-bristle pouncer paintbrush—a tall, slim body topped with a mass of black hair, while Zoe was soft and curvy with yellow-white hair and pink cheeks.
“Well, you’re certainly being nice to allow me to hang your paintings in the bakery.”
Nice.He wasn’t sure that was the word he wanted her to use to describe him.
#
THE NEXT DAY, DURINGhis lunch break, Ethan headed out to take the gold coins to an appraiser. Something Zoe had said had stuck with him. He did need a larger gallery. Not that he wanted to sell his earlier work, but if he did, a larger gallery was mandatory. If Desmond would sell the gallery to him, he could easily expand. The back-parking area served no one and it had a magnificent view of the canyon and seasonal creek. If he knocked out the back wall, added on to the gallery, and put in some windows, it could be a great place to showcase his art.
Not that he could use the coins. They had to belong to someone. He didn’t believe Hannah’s story. Sure, he had faith. He believed in miracles. But faith and miracles hadn’t saved Allison, and he didn’t expect them to fund his purchase of the gallery.
