COURTNEY HAD AGREEDto watch Hannah so Ethan and Zoe could go to the gallery gala. Before this night, every time that Ethan and Zoe had been together had felt natural—like two friends enjoying each other’s company. But tonight, as he held the door open to the gallery for Zoe to pass through, felt like a date.
Ethan hadn’t been on a first date in years. Maybe even decades.
He ran a finger around his collar, wondering what had made him include Zoe. She’d probably hate it. Even he had a hard time when artists started acting snooty—as if their art came from some woo-woo planet detached from their own imaginations. And a few of the artists who would be attending tonight were some of the worst. She’d probably be bored out of her mind. He knew if Misty started talking harmonious compositions he would be, too.
Zoe, wearing a curve-hugging black dress, stiletto heels, and long strand of pearls, looked better than the art on the walls—his included. He still tingled every time he thought of her kiss.
Oak Hollow Gallery sat on the corner of PCH and a tiny cross street that angled off toward the beach. The large plate-glass windows gaped at the busy sidewalk to the front and overlooked the seasonal creek in the back. White walls stretched up to twelve-foot ceilings. Everything looked pristine, avant-garde, and beautiful, but Ethan had misgivings. He didn’t know if Zoe was ready for the art crowd. And he wasn’t sure he was ready to show her this side of himself.
Not that he was embarrassed about being an artist. He’d fought long and hard to get to where he was...or had been. He knew better than anyone that if he didn’t start producing soon, his name and reputation would slide away into oblivion. And that would be okay, wouldn’t it? He liked teaching.
Ethan followed Zoe’s gaze as she surveyed the room.
“Your paintings,” she began.
A discussion on his work would lead to speculation on why he no longer painted. Because he wasn’t ready for that conversation—and maybe he never would be—Ethan took Zoe’s hand and led her to the group gathered in the corner surrounding Desmond.
Tonight, Desmond looked especially debonair. De-boner, Allison used to say in a hillbilly’s voice. No one could make him feel more down-to-earth than Allison. But tonight, he didn’t want to think about Allie. He put his hand on the small of Zoe’s back and stepped close enough to smell her perfume. Typically, she smelled of the bakery—yeast, cinnamon, sugar. Tonight, she wore something else. He hadn’t decided if he liked the change, or not.
The crowd in the corner made way for him. “Desmond, Lance, and Leo, Mr. and Mrs. Greer —this is my friend, Zoe.”
They all shook Zoe’s hand. Lance and Leo—better known as the Gear Heads—eyed her. They were both stoned already. Their parents were only slightly steadier on their feet.
“Are you an artist, too?” Mrs. Greer asked.
Before Zoe could answer, Ethan cut in. “Culinary art,” he said.
“Ah,” Mr. Greer patted his stomach, “my favorite.”
“Daddy!” Mrs. Greer screeched and widened her eyes at her sons, trying to apologize for her husband without using words.
“It’s okay, mom,” Lance said. “I know our stuff takes some warming up to.”
Leo hooted as if Lance had said something hilarious. “Warming up,” he said between breaths, “because we’re machine artists.”
Zoe smiled politely and sent Ethan a questioning glance.
Lance must have noticed, because he asked, “Are you familiar with machine art?”
Zoe shook her head.
“It’s the combination of art and machines,” Lance said. Holding his hand in front of him with his fingers flexed, he mimicked a rotating device. “Cogs and wheels fused together into the fantastic that incorporates technology and aesthetic designs inspired by 19th-century industrial steam-powered machinery.”
Ethan was impressed. He didn’t know the Gearhead Brothers knew such big words.
“Let me show you,” Leo said, taking possession of Zoe’s arm and leading her across the room to a canvas that had been painted red and covered with bits of broken machinery.
Ethan felt naked without Zoe at his side, he moved to follow her and Leo but just then Misty clicked into the gallery on her Kate Spade shoes. Grabbing Ethan’s arm, she pulled him into a corner. “What are we going to do if Desmond sells the gallery to the potheads?” she whispering hissed.
Ethan tried not to be annoyed that Misty hadn’t even apologized for making him take her home from the bar. But maybe she’d been so soused, she hadn’t remembered. He shrugged and tried to look nonchalant. “I’m not sure what wecando.”
“We could pool our resources and buy it ourselves,” Misty suggested.
Could he live with a daily dose of Misty? He didn’t think so, but he wasn’t sure how to say this. Misty, although a talented artist, was probably the last person he’d want to go into business with. He sought out Zoe. Their gazes locked.
She was one of the few people who wasn’t interested in him because of his art. He liked that. He liked her. When was it too soon to tell her?
