Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 104820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
“Tessa, what you’ve just described—that’s exactly how I feel when I know I’m nailing a scene. Like I’m being totally open and honest and unafraid of what people might see me do… or be.” His smile was full of admiration as he added, “Clearly, when you paint, you’re using your authentic voice.”
She smiled back at him. But it was more than just a smile on her lips. It felt like her whole body was smiling.
Her authentic voice.
That was it exactly. She’d never been able to articulate so clearly how she felt when she had a paintbrush in her hand and a clean sheet of paper coming to life in front of her.
It was amazing to realize that she and Arch understood each other on a deeper level. And maybe a part of her—one that she had shoved way down deep—had always known this would be the case. When it came to Arch, this was what scared her—and thrilled her—the most. She’d never known that fear and joy could be such close bedfellows.
“Are any of your paintings at the house?” He sounded eager to see them.
“Yes…” She paused again, checking in with herself to see if she trusted him enough to let him see them. Finally, she admitted, “But I’m not ready to show them to you.”
“Well, whenever you do feel comfortable showing me, I know I’m going to love them,” he said.
She shook her head. “Please don’t say that. Don’t get your hopes up. I’m mediocre at best.” Mylene Fraser’s compliments jumped into her head, but she instinctively shoved them away.
After so many years of believing she had no talent, it was extremely hard for Tessa to switch to thinking that she might have some.
But even as she was warring inside herself over whether she did or not, Arch said, “I knew the minute you talked about the paintings in my house that you had a special understanding of the craft. And now I feel I’ve spent enough time with you to know that you can see underneath the surface of life and the world around us, which is what really great painters do.”
She blushed and found she couldn’t tear her eyes away from their hands, which were still intertwined. There was something so perfect about the way their fingers fit together.
She felt secure. And, for the first time in forever, sexy.
It was a combination she’d never experienced before.
“I love the art on your walls,” she said. “In large part because you don’t just have a Picasso and a Cézanne. You also have a bunch of up-and-coming talents who will be huge one day. That’s the mark of a great collector. You can see the beauty of the past, but also the present and the future.” She shook her head, her mouth turning down a bit at the corners, not in self-pity, but what she believed was self-awareness. “Trust me, my paintings can’t compare with what’s on your walls. I’m never going to be Georgia O’Keeffe or Mylene Fraser.”
He squeezed her hand, and she looked up to see him smiling. “Why would you want to be anyone but yourself?”
His soft question stopped her in mid-breath. She’d been too busy comparing herself to other painters and listening to the echo of Lewis’s negative comments to see her own work as being unique—and for that uniqueness to be a good thing.
Arch’s simple question hit her hard, not just in her heart, not just in her gut, but throughout all of her—mind and body. When she was with him, she felt more herself than she had in years. Maybe ever.
“Thank you for saying that.” She fell silent again for a few moments, listening to the distant sound of families enjoying themselves and the gentle lapping of the water. Arch still gripped her hand. “No one has ever believed in me. Or just let me be me.” Then she finally smiled and said, “I love what you just said. I love the idea of being unique, of creating paintings in my own style. And I love that you’ve helped me to see my paintings in a new light. In fact, that one simple question—‘why would you want to be anyone but yourself?’—has just now made me stop caring if people don’t like them. Even you.”
Arch laughed and then, with his free hand and a light touch of her cheek, turned her to face him. The breeze whipped strands of her hair from its sensible ponytail, and he tucked them carefully—sensually—behind her ears. “Now you sound the way a great artist should. If you ask me, all artists, whether they’re painters or dancers or actors, should take a page out of Picasso’s book. He didn’t give a damn what other people thought of his work. In fact, I think his brazen confidence only made people love it more.”