“The inevitable existence of chaos?” I offer with a shrug, and she laughs delightedly.
“I like you,” she declares, clinking her glass against mine before drifting away.
See? I can do this. Mingling. Art-appreciating.
The room spins just a tad as I round a curved corner into a smaller exhibition area, and I realize I should probably take it easy on the champagne. But then my eyes land on something that makes me freeze mid-step, my glass nearly slipping from my fingers.
It’s my painting. One I did a couple of years ago after a particularly brutal breakup.
More Renaissance than Contemporary, it depicts a woman kneeling with her back turned, her spine a twisted tree trunk. Her arms are morphing into branches as they reach toward a blood-red moon set above a dark, stormy sky.
I’d poured everything I had into this piece, working on it for weeks before finally tucking it away in my storage closet. At the time, it felt too raw and personal to show anyone.
But now, here it is, mounted on a wall with perfect lighting and a small placard beside it.
“What the actual fuck?” I take a step closer to confirmI’m not hallucinating. But there’s no mistake—it’s mine. Every brushstroke, every color choice, even my tiny initials I use as a signature are right there in the bottom corner.
L.C.
How did it get here? No one knows about it. I never told anyone, but...
Mother. Fucker.
Rowan.
Emotions swing wildly between outrage and disbelief. How dare he? How did he find it? How...? I glance around. People are actually stopping to look at it. Really look at it.
My heart pounds in my chest as I frown at the piece of my soul on display. Furious and flattered that Rowan believed in my work enough to do this, I search the room until I spot him.
Carrie leans in close, placing one perfectly manicured hand on his chest before pressing her lips to his cheek as Rowan tilts his head, smiling that devastatingly handsome smile of his.
Jealously, sharp and visceral, twists in my gut. Okay, so yeah. I told him it was fine. I practically pushed him. But seeing them together, how perfectly they fit in all this glitz and glamour, makes me feel like an imposter.
He could’ve said no if he really wanted to. Right?
Whatever.
Downing the rest of what I think is my fourth glass of champagne—okay, maybe it’s more like my sixth—I swing my attention away from the happy couple and back to my painting.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
The deep, sexy, voice startles me. I nearly slosh champagne onto my dress when I turn my head and see Walker Prince standing next to me.TheWalker Prince. Star of half a dozen hit rom-coms and Rowan’s biggest heart-throb rival.
“Holy fuck.” The words vomit from my mouth before I can stop them. “You’re Walker Prince.”
He flashes me a devastating smile, complete with the infamous dimple in his left cheek. “In the flesh. And who might you be, gorgeous?”
“Lizzy,” I say, offering him my hand. “Lizzy Cade.”
“Pleasure.” Gently, he takes my hand and lifts it to his lips, brushing a soft kiss against my knuckles. His eyes—bright blue and framed by impossibly dark, thick lashes—never leave mine. “I’ve been watching you all evening.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Well, shit. That’s not creepy at all,” I retort.
Jeez, Lizzy. Filter much?
Walker throws his head back and laughs. “Fair enough. Let me rephrase: I’ve been trying to work up the courage to come talk to the most beautiful woman in the room.”
I arch an eyebrow, fighting a smile. “You think using your Princecharmis going to work its magic on me?”
