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“And your voice?” I asked. “Who gave you that?” Jason had an impressive vocal range.

“That’s all his,” Patricia said, looking at her son proudly. “No idea where it came from. Just a God-given gift. And Jason tells us that you’re a talented artist,” she said, putting her coffee cup to her lips.

“Oh, he did, did he?” I asked, giving him a raised eyebrow. “You lied to your mother?”

He smiled at me. “I’ve never actually seen one of Sloan’s original pieces. But I’ve very much enjoyed the commissioned art I’ve seen her do.”

“So you liked the astronaut cat?” I teased.

“Of course. Who wouldn’t like an astronaut cat?”

“I paint for a few companies that outsource commissioned artwork,” I explained. “I do some freelance stuff on Etsy too. Quick pieces. Birch trees, animal art. That kind of thing. Although, Jason, you have seen one of my original pieces. You did like it very much, actually. You just didn’t know it was mine,” I said, looking at him.

“When?” he asked, his brows drawing down.

“The self-portrait that you like at my house,” I said carefully, looking at him, willing him to know what I was talking about without my having to say, The one of me naked? In my bedroom, over my bed? His family didn’t need that visual.

When shock spread across his face, I knew he understood what I was talking about. “That’s a painting?” he asked, his mouth open. “That’s not a photograph?”

His reaction gave me a swell of pride. I’d forgotten that feeling, the satisfaction that my work brought me when I saw the way it affected others.

“No,” I said, loving the surprise on his face. “I paint hyperrealistic art.”

He sat up, staring at me. “Sloan, that’s—that’s incredible. I’ve looked at that dozens of times, up close. I had no idea that was a painting.”

“Dozens of times? Up close?” I asked with a sideways smile.

Then I turned to his family, not wanting to leave them out of the conversation. “Here’s one of my paintings that sold a few years ago,” I said, swiping through the photo gallery on my cell phone. When I found the painting that I’d titled Girl in Poppies, I handed the phone around the room.

“I don’t paint these anymore,” I said. “They’re very labor intensive. I have to take up to a hundred photos of my subject to work off of, and each one takes me up to two months. But this is what I used to do.”

I didn’t show my art off like this very often, but I sensed Jason wanted to impress his family, and I wasn’t very proud of my current job, if I was being honest.

“Sloan, this is wonderful. You have to keep painting,” Patricia said, genuine awe in her voice. “You have a gift. No wonder you two hit it off. You’re both so creative.”

She was right, I’d never thought of that. His voice was one thing, but his songwriting was something else. His lyrics were where he really shone. Beautiful and deep. They were what I loved the most about his music.

Jason looked at my painting photo last. When he handed my phone back, he stared at the side of my face. And he kept on staring.