Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
I walked inside, noticing how different the layout was from my gallery. My place had light walls, a hardwood floor, and lots of art lights directly on the pieces. This gallery was much moodier, with black walls, dark floors, and a special type of art light that brought out the intense colors of the paintings. There were no other customers there when I stepped inside.
A woman was working behind the counter. She greeted me with a smile then offered to help me.
“I’m interested in the painting in the window,” I said. “It’s beautiful.”
“Not only beautiful, but special,” she said. “It was painted on the first day of summer.”
“That was just a week ago.”
“Yes. I’m surprised it’s still in the window. Paintings go pretty quick here.”
Maybe it was just a sales tactic, but I wanted that painting so much, it worked on me. “I grew up in Tuscany, so the painting really touched me. How much?”
“Twenty-five hundred euros.”
That was several times more expensive than my pieces, but the price didn’t surprise me. It came with a nice frame, and it was a quality piece of work from a professional. I’d been making decent money selling my work, and since I didn’t have rent to pay or even a car payment, money wasn’t an issue for me. “I’ll take it.”
Surprise came over her face, but she quickly hid it away. “That’s lovely. Let me ring it up, and I’ll wrap it up for you.”
“That’s not necessary. I live right down the road. I’ll just carry it.”
“Very well.” She guided me to the counter and took my card.
I glanced around the room, looking at the other pieces. They all seemed to possess the same craftsmanship. “Are these all local artists?”
She ran my card through the machine then gave me the receipt to sign. “Local, yes. But it’s not a collection of artists. This galley belongs to—” She stopped talking when the door opened. “Actually, here he is now. The artist who painted this lovely piece of work—Antonio Tassone.”
My heart fell into my stomach before I even turned to look at the man I’d met a few days ago. He stopped by my gallery and bought one of my paintings, and here I was, buying one of his. The irony was so overwhelming I didn’t know if I should laugh or feel embarrassed. I turned to the door and saw Antonio Tassone walk in, wearing the same casual jeans and t-shirt as the last time I saw him. He filled out his clothing well, having a broad chest that was thick and hard. He was a perfect triangle, his wide shoulders narrowing down to his hips. He was slender and ripped, having a musculature similar to my father and brother. Bones was thick like a beast, and this man was on the leaner side.
When his eyes settled on me, there was a spark of familiarity. He recognized me, and that same lazy smile came over his chiseled jaw. A light amount of scruff sprinkled the area around his lips, like he forgot to shave that morning. With brown eyes the color of hot coffee, he was the kind of man I would normally ask out in a heartbeat.
I kept standing there, unsure what to do or say. I’d never been the kind of person that was intimidated or lost her confidence, but it took me a second to regain my balance, either because I was surprised by the turn of events or because this man was so undeniably fine.
He stopped by the counter, confident as ever. “Excellent choice.” He looked at the painting, staring at it fondly like it was one of his children. “I went to the edge of the city first thing in the morning. The morning light in Tuscany is an artist’s dream.”
I wanted to agree, but I forgot how to talk.
“Here’s your card.” The woman held it out to me.
That snapped me out of the moment, and I took it. “Thanks.”
“Let me wrap this up for you.” Antonio moved behind the counter.
“That’s not necessary,” I said, finally finding my words. “I live two blocks away. I’ll carry it.” Now I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible, never to return to this block ever again. Antonio Tassone wasn’t only a handsome and charming man, but a very talented artist. The more I liked him, the more I disliked him.
“Really?” he asked. “In that case, I’ll carry it for you. It’s a bit heavy.”
“I can do it,” I blurted, sounding rude when I didn’t mean to. I quickly spoke again, erasing the damage I caused. “I just mean, I’m stronger than I look…”
“I never doubted your strength, signorina.” He gripped the painting by both sides of the frame and held it perpendicular to the floor. “So don’t doubt my chivalry. You’ve purchased a very beautiful and expensive piece of work. The least I can do is carry it for you.” Antonio looked at me, his eyes starting to smolder with authority. A hint of a smile was on his lips, like he knew he’d gotten his way.