My jaw drops. I can’t move, my feet are frozen to the ground.
Why didn’t I know Lawson bought my paintings from Gordon? And why are they here, in the lobby of this beautiful hotel?
“Can I help you?” the receptionist says from behind the desk. Her voice sounds faraway, as if in a dream.
I don’t move. I can’t. Every part of me is frozen. No matter how long I stare at my paintings, my brain simply cannot compute what they mean.
“Miss, are you looking for someone?” the receptionist says again.
Why are my paintings on the wall? Lawson bought them. He hung them here. But why?
Because, idiot, he likes them. He likes them enough that he bought them and put them on display in his newest hotel.
But why didn’t he tell me? I would’ve accused him of only doing it because I’m fucking him. He tried so many times to convince me to let him help me and I’d always refused.
And then he went ahead and did it anyway.
The receptionist appears in front of me, a fake smile plastered across her face. She gestures to the painting in my arms. “Are you here to deliver that?”
I blink, forcing myself to drag my focus away from my paintings.
“Uh, yeah. I’m looking for Lawson Heywood.”
“Mr. Heywood is in a meeting, would you like to leave it at the desk?”
“No,” I twist myself to put my body between her and my painting, “I have to give it to him myself.”
“Sure, no problem. You’re welcome to take a seat anywhere while you wait.” She turns and hurries back to her position behind the desk.
For all I know, his meeting is all day. Do I wait? I could sit in the car and wait. Maybe that’s better. I turn to face the doors.
“Skye,” Lawson’s voice comes from behind me.
I spin to look at him. He’s dressed in a dark suit, and my breath hitches at the sight of him. He’s walking up to me with another man.
“Lawson.” I’d planned to lecture him. To throw my painting in his face and make him feel my pain. But now that I’m looking at my paintings on the walls, I don’t know what to do.
“Rick, this is Skye Simmons. The artist who created all these paintings.” He points to the walls.
“You don’t need to tell me who Skye Simmons is, we have people asking about the artist of these paintings all the time.”
My heart stops. Did I hear him right?
“Excuse me? They do?”
“Oh yes, we’ve had multiple people offering to buy them. I’ve had to get a stack of business cards from the Piek Gallery to give out.”
A light goes on. That must be why people from all over the country are phoning Gordon.
Refusing to Let Go
(Lawson)
Skye hasn’t blinked since Rick first spoke. She looks like she’s in shock. I move to her side and put my arm around her.
“Thanks for bringing your painting down here. Come with me.” I turn to Rick, “You don’t mind if we use your office, Rick, do you?”
I don’t wait for Rick’s response and guide Skye away.
When I walked into the lobby and saw Skye standing there, my chest tightened. She sought me out. She fucking tracked me down and that thought alone lessens the weight that’s been pressing on my shoulders.
I hope she doesn’t see me here in a suit and on business and think I’ve pushed her behind me. I needed a distraction, is all. A distraction from the way she slammed the door on my face.
The door to Rick’s office is propped open. We enter the room and I push the door shut behind us. We’ve only been open a couple of weeks, and his office glistens with brand spanking newness. It even smells new. A desk is along one wall, and a small, circular meeting table and chairs is in the corner.
Skye still hasn’t spoken. I take the painting from her and set it on the table.
It’s different from her other stuff, there’s no picture, just abstract blotches of paint. But it’s intriguing.
I stare down at it, turning it in a clockwise motion, trying to figure out which way is up. The colors are subdued — there’s nothing bright or cheery about it.
Her eyes are wide and her lips slightly parted. She’s examining me as I examine the painting. I don’t know what to make of it, other than that the longer I stare at it, the more my mood sinks.
I shift my gaze to her. When our eyes catch, a lump instantly forms in my throat. I swallow to try to clear it. Her eyes betray a hundred emotions brewing inside her.
Neither of us speak. I lift my hand, hoping to find her cheek but instead settling on grasping her hand. My insides wrench, it feels like this is my chance, my one shot, at getting her back. There’s so much at stake, I’m terrified of messing up.