“You know,” Addison says, appearing beside me with two glasses of champagne.
I cover my heart with my hand. “Fuck.”
“Someone is jumpy,” she says. “I find your paintings interesting.”
I take the glass she offers. “Mmm. That’s a way to explain it.”
“This is your story of falling in love.” She gestures at the collection. “The real one, and, damn, it’s beautiful. But I also realized something else.”
“Yes?” I ask.
“My brother has always been your muse,” she says. “He was how you escaped after your injury. This …” She shakes her head. “You’ve outdone yourself. And I’m so honored to call you my best friend.”
I burst into tears, not able to hold it back anymore.
“No, no, no,” she says, turning to me. “You cannot cry right now because you’re going to make me cry too.”
Now, we’re both doing it.
“Shit,” I whisper, laughing, wiping my tears away. “I’m so happy.”
“Me too. This is what dreams are made of,” she says as Patterson walks into the gallery.
The world stops spinning when our eyes meet, and then he gives me the smile. Then he’s moving across the room toward me, and our lips are crashing together.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“No, no, don’t apologize. I knew you were coming,” I tell him.
Addison squeezes my arm. “I’m so happy for you. Both of you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some mingling to do.”
I look over my shoulder toward the entrance, and that’s when I see a gorgeous woman who radiates old-money charm. “Who is that?”
Patterson laughs. “Princess Delphine Adrian of Montclaire. Her older brother is a friend, but also a total dick.”
“Wait, you know him?”
“The crown prince of Montclaire, heir to the throne, Prince Louis Adrian. Know him?” He rolls his eyes. “I’ve kicked his ass so much at pool; he owes me money.”
I hear my dad’s laughter, and it pulls my and Patterson’s attention away.
“Is he drunk?” Patterson asks.
I shrug. “Maybe? Or maybe he’s just happy?”
“Yeah, right,” we both say and shake our heads.
My dad has gotten better about seeing us together. The Stanley Cup helped though. When Dad found out that he had beaten the league record for scoring the most in a season, he softened up a lot. I think he saw how hard Patterson had worked his ass off to make sure our relationship didn’t negatively impact his performance.
“Well, I heard a famous artist who painted in Europe had artwork in this place,” he says, sliding his arm around my waist. “Show me?”
“Sure thing, Pattycakes.”
The crowd has drifted toward Addison’s side of the gallery, leaving my collection temporarily quiet. I take Patterson’s hand and pull him to the best place in the room. The very center.
“Start here,” I tell him. “Then follow it around to the end. It’s a carousel, a story.”
He smiles, kissing my hand, and he really takes his time, studying each painting. A smirk plays on his lips as he slides to the next one, like he’s reliving every single moment too.
