Close Quarters Read Online Kandi Steiner

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Angst, Billionaire, Romance Tags Authors: Kandi Steiner Advertisement

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I let my feet carry me blindly across the entryway of the gallery to the first piece of artwork hanging on the wall, muttering excuse me’s as I weaved through the crowd, and the closer I got, the more my brain quieted, leaving only my racing heart to pulse in my ears.

There was no refuting it.

There was no trying to talk myself out of the possibility of it being real.

The photograph in the frame was mine.

I covered my lips with shaking fingertips, eyes bouncing from one end of the photograph to the other. It was one I’d taken on the island of Capri, three children playing kickball in the yard with the white limestone cliffs stretching up to touch the sky behind them, the sun’s rays peeking through thick white clouds, specks of dark and light green foliage peppering the hills of houses. I remembered the way the sun coming through the clouds seemed to almost cast a golden hue over the entire island that day, and how I’d felt that piercing light into my very soul when I took this photograph. It was seeing the pure joy on those children’s faces, watching the way they ran unabashedly forward, onward, without fear or hesitation. They laughed and played and capturing that moment made me feel like I had plucked the fruits of innocence and peace straight from the tree of life and tucked them away into my heart forever.

The photograph was framed by a warm wood that only brought out more of the glow in the photograph, and there was a soft pool of light cast over it from the lamps shining on each side.

I wasn’t sure how long I stood there, blinking, swallowing back emotion, trying to understand. But when I finally turned my head to cast a glance down the rest of that first aisle in the gallery, my heart stopped altogether before kicking back to life with a fierce thump thump thump.

Every photograph in that aisle, and the next, and in the entire gallery was mine.

“Oh my God,” I whispered under my breath, shaking my head as I walked on jelly legs to the next photograph.

It was the one from Nice of the couple on the seawall, and as much as I loved seeing it printed and framed, I loved the expressions of those who were viewing it even more. There was a young couple, much like the one in the photograph, who stared at the picture a while before giving each other a knowing look, their hands clasping, cheeks blushing as if they knew the secret the couple in the photograph did, too. And an older woman behind them looked at the photograph with solemn eyes, her fingers twisting around the bare ring finger of her left hand. I wondered if there once was a gold band there, one signifying a love that was never supposed to die.

I weaved in and out of the guests of the gallery, chest tightening more and more with every step that revealed a new piece of my art. I watched as the patrons pointed and nodded, listened as they whispered how each one made them feel, and all the while, my brain was still trying to convince me none of it was real.

I must be in a dream.

I must have fallen asleep on the boat.

This can’t possibly be happening.

But when I rounded the corner into the last aisleway, there was no fog or haze or dreamy state of mind. There was only a giant photo of me looking over my shoulder, the sunset over Positano behind me, my eyes bright and wide and glistening in the setting sun.

It was the photograph Theo took.

Emotion warped my face, but I schooled it, crossing my arms over my chest as I slowly made my way to read the plaque next to it.

Aspen Dawn, photographer of all the pieces included in this special Dawn of the Med exhibit. Taken by Theo Whitman, exhibit sponsor and philanthropist. Sunset in Positano, Italy.

I rolled my lips together, shaking my head as tears flooded my eyes.

The gentleman who had held the door open for me earlier quietly came up to stand beside me, his eyes flicking from me to the photograph Theo had taken. He smiled widely, gesturing to the photograph and saying, “You?”

I nodded, laughing and swiping away the fat teardrops that slipped over my cheeks with the smile.

The man looked back to the photograph, then at me, and his hands reached forward to take mine in his own. He bowed a little, kissing my knuckles, and said something that sounded like panemorfi.

I made a mental note to look up what it meant later.

With another sweet smile, he dropped my hands, glancing at the photograph of me one last time before he left me. And I stared at the happiness reflected in my eyes in that photo for a long time before I turned, too, and promptly lost my next breath.

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