If I stayed, would Penelope?
My brow furrowed and I sat up. Where was she? It was all well and good to be alone while I had a mini panic attack over realizing I was in love with my best friend. But why wasn’t she home?
I was the worst at checking my phone. It had been off all day and I hadn’t thought to turn it on again when I left practice. It wasn’t in my pocket. What had I done with it?
After checking around the house, I looked in my truck. It wasn’t there, either. Damn it. I’d probably left it at school. I didn’t usually do that, but my post-migraine brain fog had been making it hard to think, especially right after practice.
I was starving, so I took a few minutes to grab a snack and drink some water. My head was gradually clearing, and as it did, my realization about Pen didn’t go away. It wasn’t a post-migraine delusion. I was in love with her.
And I knew before I left to go get my phone that I loved her enough to take the risk.
CHAPTER 35
Penelope
There wasn’tany parking outside the gallery, but I found a spot a coupleblocks up the street. Dark gray clouds hung low in the sky, almost as if they were pressing on the town, and a bitter wind cut through my jacket. I crossed my arms and walked quickly so I could get out of the cold.
The gallery looked different, even from the outside—empty and devoid of life. It reminded me of the time I saw my pet hamster after it had died. I’d been about nine years old, and the little ball of fluff had been unrecognizable, as if without the spirit of life animating it, it had turned into a different sort of thing. Not a pet at all.
Whatever life had been in the Painter’s Loft, it was gone.
With that unsettling thought, I tried the door. Locked. The windows were dark and curtained, making it difficult to tell if anyone was inside. But Curt had said he’d meet me, so I knocked. A gust of wind blew, and I shivered, hunkering down in my coat.
A man I recognized as Curt Redfern opened the door. He was dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and khakis, and he was taller than I remembered.
“Ms. Fallbrook?”
“Yes, that’s me. Penelope is fine.”
Gesturing for me to come in, he stepped aside. “I’m Curt. Thanks again for stopping by.”
“No problem. I appreciate you reaching out.”
“You do very nice work,” he said. “I’m glad we’re able to return your piece.”
He shut the door, and the warmth of the gallery was a relief after the cold wind outside. The walls were bare, and the space was cluttered with boxes. Sheets of canvas covered the windows, blocking out the rapidly waning daylight.
“Thank you, Curt,” a woman’s voice said.
Gina Morris emerged from the shadows at the back of the gallery. Her silver hair was styled in a smooth chin-length bob and her red lipstick stood out against her skin. She was dressed in a formfitting black shirt with long sleeves and black pants, and her matching black heels clicked on the wood floor as she walked toward us.
Curt smiled at her and walked away, disappearing into the back.
“Ms. Fallbrook.” Gina held out a long-fingered hand. “So nice to see you.”
I took her hand, although she let go almost before we’d actually shaken.
“Hi, Mrs. Morris. Um, thanks for reaching out about my painting.”
She waved that off, as if it was of no importance. “Of course. It’s been quite the process, getting ready to close.”
“I’m sure it’s a lot of work.”
She glanced around. “Indeed. This place was Edwin’s baby, not mine. I thought about keeping it open, but in the end, I realized it’s time to move on.”
“That’s understandable.”
“Are you married?”
