The Arrogant Artist : A Billionaire Boss Romance (International Bad Boys Set Book 2), стр. 68
I left the girls shopping on Fifth Avenue because I don’t have any money to spend, not until I sell some of my paintings. I made my way back to the Met to lose myself in the art. Walking past the great masters is humbling because I can’t believe that my art is hanging in a gallery just like this. Okay, maybe not like this specifically, but it’s in a very hipster part of Brooklyn. The space is nice, not as grand as this stone and marble in front of me, but anyway, it’s still awesome, and it’s a dream I never thought would happen for me.
I’m thankful my girls could come with me on this trip. They all lead such busy, hectic lifestyles. Rosie works as a producer for a reality television show. Ava works in communications for a high-end boutique, and Georgia works in PR for a top football team. So, the fact they took time out of their busy lives to be with me during this time speaks volumes of what kind of friends they are.
And for that, I’ll always be grateful to them.
I’ve left the girls at a bar in Brooklyn near the gallery as I have to do my first walk through to see if the art is hung the way I expect to show it off to its full potential. I knock on the glass door, but no one answers, so I push on it, and it opens.
I walk into the white space—one wall is a giant window overlooking the street. There are floor-to-ceiling white walls that I can see are showcasing Louis Marchant originals. The first couple of paintings are some of his older work before his split with Elisabeth. The colors and vibrancy are all there and depicting that phase of his work. I walk past another wall, and you can see the art change significantly. These pieces were done during his darker period. The blacks, the grays, the angry reds that slash across the canvas represent his feelings well during that period of time. What surprises me is he has even left the slashes in the ones he had ripped in a drunken rage.
Then, I see the sunshine lips and that make me smile. These lips, he told me he painted for me after our first kiss, and they are the same ones that moved him back into using colors.
I stare at them, my hand touching my lips, remembering what it felt like to have his lips against mine. My heart aches. I miss him.
Not going to lie, I’ve stalked his social media pages. Granted his images have changed since I was there—there are no gratuitous shirtless pictures, which is good to see. He has even deleted the ones I took of him and posted. He’s taken more images of his art, his studio, the surrounding villages for inspirational ideas. I’m really proud of him doing something I know he hates. Louis looks happy and healthy. Obviously, there has been no falling down a tequila-induced hole again.
For some reason, it feels a little like a punch to the gut because he appears as if he’s gotten his life in order. Maybe he doesn’t want me anymore? Maybe he just wasn’t that into me? Maybe too much time apart has extinguished the burning flame between us?
Melancholy seeps into my veins as I continue along looking at every one of his paintings. I see the color start to come back gradually, the moody colors making way for more muted colorful tones.
Then as I look over at the next wall, they are dark again. I frown looking at the images in front of me now. There are a lot of bright red hearts with slices cut deep into them. Goosebumps race over my skin as I realize these are the work he did after I left.
Tears well in my eyes.
I’ve ripped his heart out.
I broke it in two.
The more I move along, the more heartbreak I see, and I can’t hold back a sob as I realize how much I’ve hurt Louis by pushing him away. That while I was breaking, so was he. I clutch my shirt against my heart and let the tears slowly slide down my cheeks as I stare at the heart-breaking art—so many pieces of him falling apart.
“I didn’t mean to make you cry.” His voice startles me, so I turn around and see him for the first time in months. His blond hair has been cut. The five o’clock shadow has been shaved away. He’s dressed in old-look designer jeans and a white dress shirt, and his sleeves are rolled up his tanned arms. He smells like a combination of the earth and sea. He takes a couple of steps toward me, his large palm reaches out as he wipes away the tears falling down my cheeks with his thumb.
“I never meant to hurt you, Louis.”
He gives me a sad smile. “I never meant to hurt you either.” Louis’ palm cups my cheek, his warmth seeping through my skin. We stare at each other for what feels like an eternity until his hands fall away from my face, and the loss is felt down to my very core.
“Your paintings are incredible.” I’m not sure what else to say right at this moment.
“Thank you,” he answers.
Silence falls between us again, but then he holds out his hand. “Let me show you the rest.” My heart is thumping uncontrollably in my chest, but I reach out and link my fingers with his, anchoring him to me. “As you can see… I went a little dark here.” He gives me a timid smile but continues, “However things seemed to turn around.” I notice the colors have come back only not as bright as they once were,