Angelica spun around, unable to believe her eyes. Was that truly Kirk Devon standing there—wearing a dark suit, brilliantwhite shirt and red power tie? He looked amazing. Her heart stuttered and then began beating furiously. She felt it take wing. Could he really be here in Paris? In this backstage area?
“Kirk?”
He nodded, his eyes watching her intently. She knew that look, had thought she’d never see it again. Her breathing had stopped. For a heartbeat time stood still. Then she forced herself to take a breath.
“What are you doing here?”
Her eyes searched every inch of that beloved face. She couldn’t read him at all.
“I came to see you. Hear you.”
“Could you—hear me, I mean?”
She never expected to see him again—especially not in Paris, France!
“Most of it, I think. Watching you was enough.”
She stared at him, her heart racing.
“I didn’t know you were coming to Paris.”
“I didn’t know myself until I bought my ticket. I went to New York to see you. But you weren’t there.”
“I’ve been on tour for several weeks.”
“So I found out.”
He stepped closer and pulled an envelope from his inside pocket.
“I brought you pictures of the sculpture. I told you I’d let you see it. Always keep my word. This seemed the best way.”
For a moment she almost cried. He had come only to show her the finished art work? Trying desperately to gather her wits, she stared at the envelope. He held it out and she took it, almost snatching it away when she saw her fingers were trembling.
Opening it, she withdrew a half dozen photos. One was of the complete work, still on the floor of his studio. It looked amazing. She’d known it would. She looked at the next, a close-up of the trees, another a close-up of the cliff. The next—the woman on the edge. She stared at it for a long moment—it reflected yearning and hope with a hint of trepidation. How had he managed that with chisel and hammer? It was amazing.
She wanted to tell him so, but was afraid her voice wouldn’t work. Her throat ached with tears. She’d longed to see him for weeks. Almost as if in answer to prayer he showed up and it was only to fulfill a promise to show her the carving.
“It’s beautiful,” she finally whispered, blinking to hold back tears.
“Almost as beautiful as its inspiration, eh?” he said slowly, stepping closer.
She looked up at that, tilting her head back to better see him as he drew near with each step.
“The thing is, Angelica, I got to thinking.”
He stopped for a moment, licked his lips and took a breath.
“Ever since I can remember, Devon men can’t keep their women. You know about my granddad and father. And me with Alice. I thought maybe there was something lacking in me.”
“Nothing’s lacking in you,” she exclaimed involuntarily, hurt that he even thought such a thing.
“Maybe, maybe not. I’ve been a bit inflexible. Thought I knew exactly what I wanted. Only—seems like some things are worth bending for.”
She frowned, not knowing where he was going.
“Like maybe spending my life outside of Smoky Hollow.”
“But you love it there. You’re an integral part of the community. What would your grandfather do if you left? Your neighbors?”
