I nod and smile, trying desperately not to say anything stupid as I shake hands and make small talk. Through it all, Rowan remains a steady presence at my side, his hand never leaving mine, squeezing gently every few minutes as if to say, “You’re doing great.”
“And this,” Carrie declares, steering me toward a statuesque woman with a sleek silver bob and dramatic black glasses, “is Vivienne Chen, editor-in-chief of ArtScene Magazine.”
“Pleasure,” the woman simpers, her critical gaze sweeping over me. “I assume you’re the artist Rowan mentioned to me?”
I nearly choke on my champagne. “I, um?—”
“Yes, she is,” Rowan cuts in smoothly, his arm sliding around my waist. “Lizzy’s work is a cross between traditional tattoo and contemporary visual.”
I shoot him a sideways glance. That actually sounds... pretty accurate.
“Interesting,” Vivienne murmurs. “I’d love to see your portfolio sometime.”
Before I can respond, Rowan tells her we’ll be in touch, and I’m whisked away to another cluster of guests, one of whomincludes a pop star whose music I happen to dance to when I’m alone in my studio.
“You’re handling this like a pro,” Rowan whispers in my ear as we approach, lacing his fingers with mine.
“I’m terrified,” I admit under my breath.
He laughs. “Nobody can tell, trust me.”
After another round of introductions, we excuse ourselves to take a break and grab another glass of champagne.
My feet are already starting to throb in these heels, but I’m determined to power through.
“How are you holding up?” Rowan asks, voice low.
“Barely,” I whisper back, taking a generous sip. “How do you do this all the time?”
His eyes crinkle, amusement lighting them up. “Practice. And plenty of alcohol.”
I snort into my glass, earning a raised eyebrow from a well known socialite hovering nearby.
“Come on.” Rowan squeezes my hand. “There’s someone you need to meet.”
Guiding me through the crowd, he nods and smiles at people as we pass. I can practically feel multiple sets of curious eyes burning into me as we weave our way through.
It’s disconcerting being the center of attention like this, especially when I catch whispers of “Rowan Cole’s new girlfriend” from people as we pass by. There’s even a stunning red-headed woman who, after not even trying to hide the fact that she’s eye-fucking Rowan, gives me a once-over before turning her nose up at me.
Whatever, bitch. He’s mine.
For now, at least.
We come to a stop in front of a tall, elegant man with salt-and-pepper hair and a perfectly tailored navy suit. He’s standing in front of a massive canvas splashed with vibrantcolors that somehow form a cohesive, striking image of a naked woman when you squint at it from a distance.
“Marcus,” Rowan says warmly.
The man turns, his face lighting up. “There you are! I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it.”
They embrace briefly, clapping each other on the back.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Rowan replies. Pressing his hand against the middle of my back, he gently urges me forward. “I’d like you to meet Lizzy Cade. Lizzy, this is Marcus Crane, owner of this gallery and one of the most influential figures in the contemporary art world.”
Marcus’s piercing blue eyes lock onto mine as he extends his hand. “Rowan turned me on to your Instagram. I’m impressed.”
My mouth goes dry as I shake his hand. “Wow. Thanks.”
“Indeed.” His eyes crease deeply at the corners when he smiles. “Your fusion of traditional tattoo aesthetics with modern artistic sensibilities is quite intriguing.”
