My eyes followed his to the painting of the sad woman.
I stared at him.“No.That one isn’t for sale.”
“Then it isn’t.”He nodded once.“But she can have more ready by this fall, right?”
I was sure Mommy was still up in the attic, breathing life into other creations.Her creations breathing light into her.
“Why?”I demanded.“Why would you do this?”
“Because it matters to you.”
The words landed heavier than anything else he’d said all night.
“I wanted tonight to be a gift,” he added.“Something good.”
“This isn’t fair,” I said softly.
“What isn’t?”
“You.Knowing exactly how to disarm me.”
A faint smile touched his mouth.“That isn’t a weakness, Peyton.”
He stepped back, his hand falling away, but the connection between us didn’t break.
“You can go back to being angry with me later,” he murmured.“Right now, just enjoy the moment for your mother.”
And then he was gone.
I walked back over to Olivia.My chest tightened with emotion I wasn’t ready to name.My mother’s paintings glowed beneath the lights, quiet testaments to her talent.Creed had seen to that.He’d done this for her.For me.
“I don’t care what the man does; one thing we cannot deny is that he truly cares about you,” Olivia said from beside me.
I didn’t answer.
I just stood there, surrounded by art, proof of love given without asking permission.
My pulse was still racing when Olivia left for the ladies’ room, leaving me alone beneath the spotlight of my mother’s paintings.
I lifted my champagne flute to my lips, but the cool glass trembled faintly against my mouth.Across the gallery, Creed moved easily through clusters of donors, exchanging a few low words, nodding, listening.He was a force in the room—dark and commanding in that tailored tuxedo, effortless control radiating from every measured step and precise gesture.
The crowd parted around him without thought, as if instinctively aware of the gravity he carried.He listened with that focused intensity of his, but his gaze kept drifting back to me.
Always back to me.
The murmur of the room dulled beneath the pounding of my heart as he turned and started toward me.Slow.Unhurried.Like a man who knew exactly where he was going.
I should have left.I should have turned toward the exit and walked away.Instead, my feet stayed rooted, my chest tightening with every step he took closer.
Creed stopped in front of me, near enough that the faint scent of his cologne curled between us—dark spice, smoke, something clean and expensive underneath.My mouth went dry.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I said quietly.
“I wanted to,” he replied.
“Youalwaysdo,” I said, sharper now.“You swoop in.You fix things.You take over.”
A faint smile touched his mouth.“As I said before, that’s not a flaw.”
