There’s something about this painting that feels like permission—permission to slow down, to notice the small moments, even as I chase the big adventures.
"Okay," I say, turning back to the artist with a wide smile on my face. "I’ll take it, but in turn, I’ll get you all the exposure you need for your exhibition.”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that—”
“I insist,” I say with as much stubbornness as she used to get me to accept the painting. Now, I’ll just have to store it somewhere until I eventually get my own space. But that’s a decision for another day. I’ll just focus on enjoying the art for now.
Earlier, I made a vague post on my social media showing off my outfit for the day for a visit to an art exhibition, but now, it’s time to use my perks as a lifestyle influencer with my half a million followers on Instagram to get her all the exposure she needs. "Why don’t you go ahead and entertain your guests. I have a feeling you’re going to be talking to a lot of people about your paintings very soon. You’ll have a long week ahead of you.”
“Oh, right, okay,” she says, flustered as I shoo her toward her other guests, who are mostly family right now, but that will change. Gabriella may come from money, but she’s also a student working to prove herself on her own terms. I get that. More than she probably realizes. An amazing artist who just needs someone to help market her work. I’ll be that for her.
I consider making the video inside, but that would ruin the element of surprise, so I head outside to record.
It was terrifying at first, speaking to a camera and documenting my adventures to strangers, but I found my community—people who, like me, crave new experiences and want to see the world beyond their own backyards. I speak tothem, as I always do, inviting them to Gabriella’s exhibition, which luckily, runs for a few weeks.
I attach the address for the gallery, and the video is up for barely three seconds before it starts to get reactions. I smile at the comments that come in, offering support to the youngest of the Rossis as others repost the video. My eyes are glued to my phone as I head back inside, oblivious to everything else but the messages flooding my comment section and inbox. That’s when it happens.
Months, maybe years later, I’ll think of this moment as the universe’s idea of a prank, but when my foot catches on something and the ground rushes to meet me, right in front of all the Rossis and Marinos, I realize that I’ll never experience a moment more mortifying than this.
Time seems to slow, each moment of the fall stretching into an eternity. I feel air rushing past my face, heart pounding in my chest, so I close my eyes, bracing for impact except…I don’t kiss the floor.
Someone grips my arm, stopping my fall and making me gasp as my breath catches in my throat. Then I am pulled flush against a warm, solid chest, robbing me of what’s left of the air in my chest. My eyes snap up, meeting the gaze of a man with the most stunning blue eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re stunning in the way they furrow as he studies me, hidden behind a few auburn strands of hair. His grip is firm and steady, and I can feel the warmth of his hand through my shirt. He’s incredibly strong and…the only reason I’m not sprawled on the floor.
Conor O’Shea.
Of course, I know who this man is.
And Christ, why did it have to be him?
He’s tall, incredibly so, and with the kind of face that scares people into submission. But of course, he’d have that look. This man’s family owns and runs one of the largest security firms in the city. The same that Matteo Rossi hired to protect the Marino girls, meaning my cousins, my sister, and I. Technically, he’s doing what he was hired to do by ensuring I don’t chip a tooth on the gallery floor, but…why did it have to be him?
“Are you okay?” he asks in a deep baritone voice that sends a jolt through me. There’s concern written in those stunning eyes, a set of glacial blues that hold a captivating intensity that both chills and ignites. It’s confusing.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, fighting the urge to lean in and nuzzle the man’s neck, to breathe in his aftershave. He smells so good, like a rich mix of wood, vanilla, and spice.
I bite back a sigh when he grips my arms and pulls me back slightly. “Best watch where you’re going next time,” he says, his voice changing, losing the warmth it carried a moment ago. “What is so important about that phone that your generation can’t put it down for one fucking second and just enjoy an art exhibition?”
I bristle, my jaw clenching. “Excuse me?”
“You need to pay attention to where you’re going instead of staring at that screen,” he says. It’s not the words that take me aback but the way he says them. With an aloofness I’ve only ever heard in someone who’s never been humbled once in their lifetime. And hell, is that a sneer on his face?
My shoulders begin to tense, and I feel a prickling sensation on the back of my neck. The kind of feeling I always got when someone tried to bully my quiet and shy twin sister, right before I went after them, all nails and teeth. The feeling Igot when my aunt stole all my mother’s jewelry after she died, and I had to steal it all back.
Walk away, Arianna. You’ll get arrested if you punch this asshole in that stupidly handsome face of his. Walk away.
You can’t win this fight. Besides, the man did keep you from losing your teeth on the floor. Find it in you to forgive him.
I clench my jaw, and with a last glare at the man, turn to walk away, heading toward Gabriella to give her a heads up about the flood of interest heading her way. And no, I’m definitely not thinking about the extremely handsome man who saved me from falling.
Conor O’Shea is easily one of the most attractive men I’ve ever seen. Standing over six feet tall with a body made for women to swoon over, and looks that prove that God does indeed have favorites. All that, wasted on a foul mouth.
What a waste of good looks.
Chapter One
Six Months Later
Arianna
