Painting reminded me of her leaving and those hours we spent together working on our canvases, but it was also alwaysthe one thing I could count on to comfort me; it was a place where I could feel my feelings, whatever they were, and it was safe to store them there. I could put my innermost thoughts and feelings on a canvas, and people would praise me for it. They called it “evocative,” and “authentic,” and “unapologetically agonizing,” and it had won me awards since I was a teenager. But those doors opened for me because of my last name.
My dad’s last name.
He was well known in the rich high society of the Boston area, but never as a creative. Those doors were always shut to him. He was the lawman, the CEO, the big man with deep pockets.
So, in recent years, when his son’s paintings garnered attention from the university and local galleries, Dad had taken a special interest inmyspecial interest. He bought me expensive paints, fresh easels, and fancy brushes. He actually encouraged me, became invested in something I had been so passionate about for years.
He told me, “You always have to take the opportunities given to you, son, or you’ll never succeed in this city.”
But this was different. My art had changed.
Over the years, I’d painted in different styles, trying to find my own. My old paintings had caught the eye of Mr. Vender, the richest, most famous gallery owner within fifty miles of Sweetwater Bay, a small coastal city north of Boston. My dad couldn’t have been happier to volunteer me to paint a central piece for a new exhibit Mr. Vender was having on the fourteenth for Valentine’s Day.
The problem was…I hadn’t painted anything close to the Monet- and Van Gogh-style impressionism in close to three years. I was out of practice, and I’d grown out of it. Really, it had mostly been for class anyway.
“That’s not an excuse.” Dad frowned hard enough that the deep-set line creased across his forehead. “It’s an exhibit around Valentine’s Day. As ridiculous as that notion is, your piece must not only complement the theme but also be the showcase, the centerpiece. I won’t tolerate any of those horrific, dark grotesqueries you’ve been painting as of late. They’re better suited for a discount haunted house than any professional gallery. And most importantly, you gave your word that you would do this. You’re not going to fall short, son. You would ruin your reputation in the art world. Mr. Vender has been kind enough to let you have a space in his exhibit, and I will not let you throw it down the drain.”
I lowered my gaze from his dark, intense one and nodded. “Of course, Dad. I wouldn’t break my word.”
Even though I hadn’t given it in the first place. Dad had. Which meant thathisreputation was on the line here, not mine—not really.
Jackson gazed up at me with his big, round eyes, and I looked away. He had a knack for making me feel exposed because, as my fur baby, he saw me at my best and at my worst.
“Good. I’ve already contacted the local news, and they will be at your exhibit on the fourteenth to write a report. I expect you to be at your best, and your painting to be as well.”
He shot a distasteful glance at my easel, which I’d set up at the large window in the living room of my condo apartment. I thought the sunlight and the view of the city and ocean from the top floor would inspire my creativity again, since my studio I’d set up in my spare bedroom hadn’t been inspiring me like it normally did.
I’d been wrong.
“Come on, Dad, he always gets it done before the big day. It’s fine.”
I glanced at my sister, Cordelia, who sat around the table with us and pointed her fork at our father. She, like me, looked more like Omma than Dad. Long, straight hair—though hers was pitch black and mine was a pale blonde—and warm brown eyes. Short and slight in stature, where Dad had always been above six feet tall, with broad shoulders and hands.
They’d both shown up this morning, chatty after last night’s auction. They’d invited me to go with them, but I’d declined, citing trying to work on the stupid painting, only to stare at it until almost 2 am.
Now here we were. They’d brought breakfast from Cordelia’s favorite shop and let themselves into my apartment while I was still in the shower.
Dad sighed. “I understand that, sweetheart. But he has also failed to take care of his basic needs for nearly a month now.”
His sharp gaze turned to me. “I will not accept you skipping meals or letting your hygiene or exercise slip to the wayside because you’re not willing to work for your opportunities. I can’t always be here to set money and opportunities in your lap.”
I clenched my jaw, swallowing past the lump in my throat. They’d literally interrupted my shower this morning. And my fridge had food in it. I was still taking care of myself, even if sometimes I forgot to eat until after I’d felt like I’d made some progress on the painting. So what if that was after midnight most days? Jackson always inevitably yowled until I fed both of us, even if I was halfway to death in my exhaustion. He wasn’t a chubby cat, but that didn’t mean he didn’t demand his rightful portion of food each day. Twice.
Luckily—or unluckily—Cordelia spoke before I could.
“But we fixed that for him, Dad. So it should work itself out now.”
I frowned. “You fixed what for me?”
Just then, someone knocked on the door.
Cordelia grinned and shot to her feet, primed to launch herself at my door, even as I stood, gently depositing Jackson onto my seat.
“Cordelia,” Dad scolded, grabbing her wrist. He nodded to me, “Go, Lucian.”
I frowned. What the hell was going on? But I answered the door anyway, swinging it open to reveal a man, about my age, who immediately stole my breath away.
Tall, dark, and handsome didn’t do him justice. He had a backpack slung over one shoulder, with a large duffel in his other hand, veins prominent on his tan forearms. His shoulders were broad—he could have bench pressed me easily. He had dark, short hair and dark eyes. His skin was slightly tanned, and his beard was short, cut neatly to a healthy stubble that I could feel the soft scratch of from here. I felt my thighs quiver in response to my traitorous thoughts of where that beard burn would be best put to use.
