Near the kitchen, I spot a small Egon Schiele drawing in a simple black frame. On the opposite wall, there’s a Helen Frankenthaler print in soft pinks and oranges that catches the sunlight perfectly.
I understand why she felt so at home in my loft in the palace. She has the same kind of sanctuary I do. The brick, the art, the way sunlight leaks through the windows … it feels like her. It has the comfort of a place that’s been loved and lived in.
“This is it,” Addison says behind me, closing the door.
“Feels like home. Cozy. Very much you.” I turn to face her, and she’s standing there in that blue sundress with the pearl buttons, inviting me into her world. “You have a Schiele.”
“A gift from my father when I graduated.” She moves past me andtrails her fingers along the back of the couch. “He said every artist needs to live with genius so they remember what they’re chasing.”
“And the Alice Neel sketch?”
“Found it at an estate sale in Brooklyn six years ago. The family had no idea what they had.” She grins. “I paid two hundred dollars for it.”
“You seem to have all the luck.”
“I agree.” She reaches for me and pulls me close. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
I take her hand, her fingers small and warm in mine. “Nothing was going to stop me.”
Outside, a siren wails somewhere in the distance and fades. The city hums through the windows with that constant New York energy that never settles. I let it wash over me while I tuck loose strands of hair behind her ear. My body is exhausted from traveling.
“What do you think your mother will do when she finds out you’re here?”
I shrug. “Maybe she’ll fire the look-alike she hired to stand in for me when I’m not being cooperative.”
Addison’s mouth falls open. “What?”
“That’s the correct reaction. I’m fucking livid, Addy.”
She wraps her arms around me. “I don’t have the answers.”
“Luckily, we don’t need them right now,” I say.
“Are you hungry?” she asks.
“For you,” I whisper.
“You look like you’re about to collapse.”
“I’ll sleep later,” I say, pulling her closer. “Right now, I just want this.”
She relaxes against me. We stand in her living room while car horns drift up from the street below. Her head rests against my chest, and I hold her, breathing in the smell of her shampoo, feeling her warmth.
Everything I potentially gave up for her flashes through my mind. I don’t regret it. From the moment I saw her at that gallery, I knew she was different, like I’d found what was missing in my life. I didn’t realize she’d become my entire world.
“I want to see where you paint,” I say against her hair.
“Really?” she asks.
“Yes, I want to know everything about your world,” I confess.
It makes her smile as she leads me across the loft to a corner nearstacked windows that stretch twelve feet high. Ivy snakes up the wall and is attached to another planter. There’s an easel with a cloth over the top, and supplies are freshly laid out. Brushes are in jars, and tubes of paint are scattered around.
“You’ve been painting?”
She turns to me. “I was raging and couldn’t sleep because of the time difference. Thought I’d put my emotions to use.”
I can’t stop staring at her.
