I bite back a smile. “Look at him acting like he isn’t thestarof this show.”
“Look at you acting like you don’t want to go grab him and fuck him against that wall,” Oliver says, then whips a hand up to clasp over his mouth. “Shit. Sorry, Weston.”
Weston gives Ollie a shove. “You guys can stop acting like I’m going to lose my mind if you reference their relationship. Rayne and Hunter know that I love them both, even if I’m going tomake fun of themfor their relationship any time I can.”
Noah snickers. “And you’d do that even if you weren’t related to Hunter. Let’s be real.”
“Damn right.”
The small campus art gallery has about ten of Hunter’s paintings hanging along various walls. Each painting is a different size, lit by a spotlight, and people are milling around the gallery, chatting and inspecting the art.
Hunter’s paintings look like landscapes at first, intensely colored in almost neon shades. But when you look closer, there’s always something hidden in the landscapes. One of them depicts an Old West style cowboy with red eyes, sitting back against a tree. Another has dark, gothic fairy-type creatures hidden among a tree’s leaves.
Hunter finally looks up to see us, and he looks relieved, walking over.
I pull him into a hug and give him a kiss.
“I was about to lose my mind being here alone,” he says. “A bunch of strangers, inspecting and judging my personal art pieces? Not exactly my favorite thing.”
It’s the first time in my entire life I’ve ever seen Hunter get bashful.
“They all seem to love it, though,” Oliver says. “I heard a guy say he’d hang that snowy forest one on his wall.”
“The one with the little evil foxes,” Noah chimes in.
Hunter furrows his brow. “They’re not evil. They’re little demon fox spirits, protecting that forest, not harming it.”
“Even better.”
As we walk around the gallery, I keep some form of contact with Hunter at all times.
A hand on the small of his back.
A gentle touch on his shoulder.
And as time passes, I canfeelhim relaxing and the nerves melting away. Especially as the gallery gets moreand more people passing through, and so many of them talk about how much they love the art.
One older woman in particular comes through, her heels clicking as her eyes dance over the paintings. She has short grey hair and she’s dressed elegantly, in a long green dress.
“You’re the artist?” she says to Hunter.
He pulls in a breath, standing taller. “That’s me.”
“I’ve seen your pieces online. I’m Madeline Wells. I’m an art director in a gallery in New York City.”
She reaches out to shake Hunter’s hand.
Hunter has been uploading photographs of his paintings to a popular art website, and they’ve gained traction slowly and steadily.
“Pleasure to meet you. This is my boyfriend, Rayne Colson.”
“Are you an artist, too?” Madeline asks.
I snort. “If you consider running with a football to be a form of art? Maybe.”
Madeline’s serious expression suddenly shifts and she laughs, clear and bright.
“I’ve been so interested in the way Hunter works with color theory. It’s masterful. Reminds me of Rothko, but if he focused on impressionistic landscapes like Monet.”
