It’s good to be back. I sigh as I stare at three months’ worth of mail waiting on my desk. Even the thought of going through all those bills isn’t enough to bring down my mood. I’ve missed New Jersey, missed my home, and, even more so, the gallery. Don’t get me wrong, our trip around Europe was fantastic. Meeting new artists in hopes of bringing them to the States, visiting my most-loved piece at The Louvre,Orphan Girlby Eugène Delacroix, and getting to finally step into the National Gallery in England. Scotland was my favorite stop. It’s where my ancestors are from, after all. Not that I ever met any of my relatives. Or know anything more about them beyond the few names I forced from Dad. But it was amazing to see nonetheless. I wanted to stay longer. To continue with our new American culture traveling gallery and become more intimate with every art museum and showcase we participated in. But I was also homesick. Every time I touched a canvas or inhaled the smell of paint, I thou
An hour later, I come to the conclusion that if I don’t put the mail down and take a break, I’ll go blind. Not to mention, starve. My stomach groans in protest of its emptiness and I grimace.This morning, I was so excited to get to the gallery, I filled my cup of coffee and rushed out of the house.“Remy, I’m going to Kubano for lunch. Can I bring you anything back?”She looks up from the setup she’s working on. Her gaze catches on something over my shoulder and she grins from ear to ear like a fool. “You may want to wait on Kubano. Something yummier is coming this way.”I look behind me and my breath catches as, through one of the large windows of the gallery, I spot Nathan peeking inside.When his warm eyes lock onto mine, heat rushes to every inch of my face, and my own lips pull into a wide grin.Oh my God, he’s here! I do a quick mental check of my appearance. My hair loose in tight waves, the powder-blue shoulder-tie dress and white sandals. I dressed for comfort, not to impres
However, Nathan barely touches his food. His brow furrows as he pushes a sweet potato fry across his plate. “Did you enjoy your trip abroad?”I nod and drink some more water to wash down my food. “It was very nice. Have you ever been to Europe?”“Italy,” he says. “I have a house in Brera.”Impressed, I raise my brows. Not that I know where that is. “It must be nice to have a place to stay while you travel.”“I rarely go. Work keeps me too busy here.”And here’s my chance to ask what I’ve been so curious about. “What type of work do you do?”“I’m a consultant.”I laugh. “That’s the response you give someone when you don’t want to tell them what you do.”“Maybe I don’t want to say.”Cocking my head, I chew my lower lip and study him. “Can I guess?”“I’d love to hear what you think I do. It will be sort of judging a book by its cover, though.” He grins devilishly, as if he can’t wait for me to trip up and say something insulting.“Well”—I tap my finger against my chin—“based on looks, I’
I shrug, then laugh. “Maybe I should hire you instead. You can be one of our artists and then people’s jobs would be safe.”“I’m not a good artist.”“I’ll tell you a secret.” I lean in. “No one really is. That’s what makes it so beautiful.”“Are you always this happy?”“Why wouldn’t I be?” I pick up one of my fried plantains and shove it in my mouth.“Life can really suck sometimes.”“Hmm. It can, I suppose. Especially for the ones who lose their jobs when you show up,” I tease.“Someone will take mine too someday,” he says.I nod and grab another thin plantain. “The way I see it is, life hands you all these paint colors. You don’t have a choice in using them—they all have to be used. But you choose which ones to paint your immediate surroundings with. Personally, I like to keep the grays in the background. Like little storm clouds in the distance on a summer day.”He stares at me again in that scrutinizing way, as if he’s trying to make me out.“Why do you look at me like that?” I as
“It’s on me.”“I’m the only one who ate.” I point at my plate. “You lied to me, Nathan . You weren’t even hungry, were you?”“Iamhungry, Natalia . But not for food.” His intense stare leaves no question about his meaning.“Oh,” I whisper, my mouth gone instantly dry.As he works on calculating the tip for our meal, I stare at him. At his handsome features. He must be in his early thirties; however, very few lines mar his face.I recall my mother saying lines on your skin are like a map that tells you where someone had been. Crinkles around the eyes and mouth say a person has known joy. But if they’re on other parts of the face, parts that don’t normally pull when a person smiles, that means they’ve been through hell.Nathan doesn’t have lines around his eyes or mouth. His are between his brows and one long indent that forms on the side of his cheek when he’s deep in thought. Like now.“Nathan ,” I say.He signs the receipt and places his credit card back into his black leather wallet,
He arches a brow. “Seems like you’ve handled these more than a few times.”I grin. “Dad has always insisted that I’m familiar with them since they’re in the house.”Nathan inspects the piece, maneuvering the pistol in his large hands in a way that shows me he knows what he’s doing. “This is nice.”“It’s Dad’s favorite. First thing he ever bought for himself that he really wanted.”“What’syourfavorite?” he asks, handing it back to me.“None. I don’t like them.” I place the Mauser back in the case and lock it.“Then show me what you like, Natalia .”God, the sound of my name in his voice is like fine wine, decadent and rich and oh so sexy. I want to close my eyes and listen to him say it again.“Come.” I take his hand, and though he seems surprised, he doesn’t pull away. “What I want to show you is upstairs.”We go up the narrow staircase, all the way to the third-floor attic that’s been finished. Sort of. While it does have air conditioning, the walls are still made of grayed wooden sl
“Yes.” I lean against the table and peer down at them. “Eyes are windows. Everything you need to know about someone, you can find it there. The rest of the face is just… Extra.”“Who do they belong to? Are they all the same person?”“Not all.” I pull one from a stack and show him. “These are my father’s eyes. Kind. Proud. And these eyes”—I show him another—“belong to my college professor, Miss Crane. She was a bitch and hers were cold as ice.”“And these?” He circles his hand above the majority. “They’re all the same person.”I nod. “They are.”“These are amazing, Natalia . It’s like…” As if he can’t find the words, it takes him a while to continue. “It’s like I’m staring into someone’s soul.”“Thank you.”“For a second, I thought it was you. But I’m not so sure now.”“They’re my mother’s eyes,” I whisper. “How I remember them, anyway.”Turning to me, his brow furrowed, he asks, “Did she pass?”I smile sadly. “No. She left.”A dark flicker crosses his expression for a split second. Bu
He looks at me again. “As nice as she could be, I suppose.”His new mother may have been nice, but the shadows swimming in his eyes tell me it wasn’t enough. The damage was done.It’s the being abandoned part that fucks you up. That the person who’s supposed to love you unconditionally doesn’t give a shit about what happens to you.Thankfully, my father is a good man. He did his best to make up for her absence. To love me twice as much, maybe more.But did Nathan ’s? Did his father love him twice as much too?“And your father?” I ask, wanting to know. Needing to know that someone did love him the way a child deserves to be loved.“Like I said, he was a prick. He died a few months ago.”“Oh, Nathan .” I slide my hand up over his shoulder and cup his cheek. He turns into it, pressing his lips to my palm.Without pulling from my touch, he lifts his gaze to mine. “What do you see in my eyes, Natalia ? If they’re windows into my soul, what do you see?”I stare into them, peering deeper tha