The Smiths drown out the sounds of the wedding as I submerge myself in my work. An oil-painted delicate woman sprawled on a grassy knoll, naked as the day she was born, stares back at me.
It’s the woman’s hands that are giving me hell.
Nearly every artist on the planet would agree that hands are the worst to paint, draw, or sculpt. They never curve right. They’re too long or too short. The subtle detail of wrinkles in the jointsalways comes across too harshly, making a woman’s dainty fingers appear far too rough and weathered.
And this current woman on my canvas is about to be wearing gloves and nothing else because I have been working on her goddamn hands for two days now. As I focus on her fingers, I try to ignore the scene in my periphery.
Just outside the window to my left, I have a perfect view of the gazebo in the distance. Guests are gathered around the round structure in white folding chairs as the summer breeze tries to carry away the decorations.
Weddings must be the most ridiculous waste of time and money. This idea that someone would be willing to pledge their undying faith to another person is idiotic. Of course, they want to promise thatnow—they’re happy now. What about when they’re tired, miserable, cross? When they’ve found someone more suitable? When they grow tired of the way their partner chews or sings or drives?
No, marriage is the most foolish thing man has ever created.
It’s far better to fuck for fun and collect a few friends along the way.
Or, in my case, just one.
The brush in my hand stills as the memory of my old mate comes to the forefront of my mind. I linger there for a moment, picturing his face as years of regret and guilt assault me into paralysis.
Pulling my hand from the canvas, I blame stiff joints as I flex my fingers and rub at my knuckles. It’s some form of arthritis or carpal tunnel, and definitely not the fact that I haven’t spoken to him in nearly seven years.
And even then, I don’t know why it bothers me so much, because Colin Shelby was just my friend—nothing more, nothing less.
Chapter Two
Declan
When I venture out of my studio hours later, it’s dark, and I hear familiar voices echoing through the halls. As I make my way into the kitchen, my older brother’s voice booms loudly with laughter.
I step into the room with a grimace as I cross my arms over my chest. Killian is leaning against the kitchen counter, his petite wife pressed against him with his beefy arms wrapped around her.
My younger brother, Lachlan, is helping Anna tie bags of rubbish and carry them out the door to the back of the house.
The wedding is long since over, and only my siblings remain to either help clean up or drive me mad.
“What are you all doing in my house?” I scowl as I reach for the kettle to put some water on for tea. “Surely, we didn’t all bother Killian as much as you all bother me.”
They laugh. “That’s exactly why we’re here,” Lachy replies. “You’re a miserable grump. If we don’t bother you, who will?”
“Exactly my point,” I mutter.
“It’s surprising that all these weddings don’t bring you a little bit of joy,” my sister-in-law, Sylvie, says with a smile. “I wasn’t much for them either, but even I can admit, they are lovely.”
My brow furrows as I turn the stove on to heat my water.“They are loud, obnoxious, and only make me more bitter.”
“Says the man who hides away in his studio like some attic-dwelling ghost,” Anna jokes.
“It’smyhouse, and I have every right to haunt it,” I reply, flicking water in her direction.
“Come now,” Killian drawls. “Maybe if you came down occasionally and helped our sister with these events, you’d learn to love them.”
I glower at my brother because I know he’s full of shite. He was twice the miser I am, and he wouldn’t have been caught dead hosting weddings in the manor when we lived here. He snickers to himself, clearly fancying my agony.
“Aren’t you supposed to be returning to New York soon?” I ask, glancing between him and his wife. “What are you two doing here anyway?”
“We’re on our honeymoon,” she replies sweetly.
“You got married over a year ago,” I say. “Twice, I might add. And Scotland is no place for a honeymoon when you’ve lived here for so long. Honeymoons are for places like Bali and Greece.”
