Our house—it felt so good to say that—was filled with our friends and family. With every person that mattered. That we loved.
I didn’t miss New York. Not for one second. Except for Damien, the city held nothing that I wanted. My friend had laughed in delight when I told him I was staying in Southport.
“I knew it!” he had cried in delight and then promised to come to visit as soon as possible. And he had. He had come down at least six times since I decided to stay put in my hometown.
The mural was a huge hit. It was a surreal moment to be at the official unveiling on Bicentennial weekend. Everyone in town had been enthusiastic about the piece, and it resulted in multiple commissions. As a result of the uptick of work, I decided to rent out a gallery space on the same street as Adam’s office, where I could display my art. I wasn’t making a ton of cash...yet. But the interest in my work was encouraging.
Adam was my biggest fan. The painting I had done of us all those months ago hung in pride of place in the living room.
My mother was looking at it now, tears in her eyes. “Your dad would be so happy for you,” she said, and I put my arms around her slight frame, hugging her tightly.
“Are you happy, Mom?” I asked her.
“If my girls are happy, I’m happy,” she assured me. She looked over to where Adam was laughing with Robert and Skylar. “And he makes you happy, doesn’t he?” She didn’t ask it as a question. She knew the answer.
“More than anything,” I said.
Our eyes met across the room.
You and me, he mouthed.
My heart was near to bursting.
You and me, I mouthed back.
And that’s how it would always be.
Adam and me.
Always.
Forever.
The End
Dear reader,
First of all, thank you so much for reading my books! It’s passionate readers like you that allow me to live my dream and do the thing I love most on earth, which is writing books and entertaining people!
Do you want more steamy romance?
Then make sure to keep on reading! I’ve included a preview of my novel “Unexpected Heat”! ;-)
Preview: Unexpected Heat
Chapter 1
Mila
I love my studio, and right now, it’s super tidy with everything on my desk arranged neatly and the easels standing side by side. My gaze falls on my three work-in-progress portraits, and I know they’ll soon go to the trash can. They look terrible.
A heaviness comes over my body.
How long will it last, this inability to work? The last time I turned out a good piece was almost a year ago. Thankfully, I’ve been prolific over the last couple of years, taking in portrait jobs that have earned me a nice nest egg. Money is not an issue.
It is the growing hole in my chest where my heart should be and the feeling of restlessness that can only be relieved by my work. And yet, I can’t paint. What if my ability to paint never comes back? Panic spreads in my chest.
Painting is the one thing that has always belonged to me, that kept me sane no matter what was going on in the rest of my life. Clay took with him my self-esteem and my ability to love again. But worse than those things, is that since the day he left, I haven’t painted. It’s as if my hands have forgotten how to move the paintbrush across the canvas, and my brain can’t fathom what is expected of it.
The doorbell rings. The sudden noise jolts me out of my thoughts. A rare intrusion. I tick off all possibilities. There is only one person who would come to my house without calling first. The one person I never want to see again. The cause of my painter’s block.
I leave my studio on the second story and sprint down the stairs. I peer through the keyhole. Clay’s dark eyes stare back as if he can see me. With a sigh, I fling the door open.
“What do you want?” I say with no pretense of politeness. We are beyond that now. With the divorce final, there’s nothing to bind us together anymore.
“Is that any way to greet your husband?” he says and leans on the door frame.
Anger coils itself around my insides. I inhale deeply. I cannot show him how angry he still makes me. “Ex-husband,” I point out, my tone casual.
He has bags around his eyes. Once, that would have made my