My gaze landed on the paintings she’d finished. It was a city-themed exhibit with a variety of paintings: cityscapes, walks in the park, drinks in a bar, glamorous women and couples, as well as an array of still-life paintings. The most eye-catching depicted a pair of red high-heeled shoes next to a spilled bottle of red nail polish, and in a corner a glint of red lace stockings.
I swallowed. My primitive brain pictured Jesse’s long, slender, toned legs in those red stockings and high heels.
I moistened my lips, forcing myself back to this moment. I couldn’t blow this by moving too fast. Not with her. She deserved everything.
I cleared my throat. “How do you even organize an art exhibit?”
Her head turned toward me, and I realized just how close we were. The AC hummed, but in that tiny room it felt useless.
Her eyes lit up, pleased I’d asked. “Basically, there are two kinds of solo exhibits,” she began, counting on her fingers. “Ones the artist organizes themselves, and ones a gallery puts together for you. Since no gallery has invited me yet, I’ll be doing the first.”
She crossed her bare legs, getting comfortable as her voice warmed with enthusiasm. “I’ll need to find a space big enough for the number of pieces I want to show, but also with room for things like a refreshment table and some seating. Then comes estimating how many people will actually show up—which is the hardest part. Because, let me tell you, there’s nothing worse than prepping for weeks only to have five people wander in. The artist is humiliated, the guests feel awkward, and the whole atmosphere just… tanks.”
I gave her a crooked smile. “Sounds brutal. But that’s marketing, not talent.”
“True,” she conceded with a sigh. “A lot of great artists are terrible at advertising themselves. The best advice I’ve heard is: don’t do a show until you’ve sold a decent amount already. That way you’ve got people who’ll show up, cheer you on, set the tone. Another trick is to pre-sell a few pieces so you’ve got those little red dots on the walls. Makes everything more appealing. And then, of course, you invite absolutely everyone you know. An exhibit should buzz. Silence is death.”
I tilted my head. “I’m guessing you also have to talk.”
She blew out a breath, smiling ruefully. “Yeah. Every artist is expected to talk about their work, share clever stories about each piece, describe their creative process. If you’re in a gallery and you can do it well, they’ll love you forever.”
“And that’s hard for you?”
“It’s hard for most artists,” she admitted. “We’re introverts by nature. Some are narcissists, sure, but most would rather hide behind the canvas than mingle.”
I bit down lightly on my lower lip, studying her. “What about you? Can you talk about your art?”
Her gaze flickered to my mouth before locking back on my eyes. A spark shot through me.
“I can’t say I’m comfortable with it,” she admitted. “But I’ll have to. If I want to succeed, I have to push past that. Selling online helps, but it doesn’t compare to the right in-person event. Those are the ones that change things. They can make or break you.”
I leaned in, intrigued despite myself. “Really? It’s that important?”
Before she could answer, my phone rang. Candi’s name lit up the screen.
Perfect timing. I cursed inwardly, because I’d been getting somewhere with Jesse—real somewhere, not just the usual sparring.
“Excuse me a second.” I swiped the screen. “Hi, Candi.”
“Hi, Baby! What do you say about you, me and a bottle of Prosecco for lunch? I’m on my way over.” Her laugh tinkled through the line.
“Uh… I’m not home.”
I could hear her pout. “Oh. Okay. Will you be gone long?”
“No, not long.”
“Did Jilly fix your door?”
I stifled a laugh. “Yeah, Jilly fixed my door.”
“Great. Well, I’ll be there shortly. We… won’t be able to see each other for a few days.”
That meant her old man was heading into town. I was tempted to tell her not to come. But she didn’t wait for me to answer.
“See you soon,” she said.
I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. “Okay.”
