The Art of Stealing Kisses - Stella London Page 0,14

for a while, get some rest before the jet-lag hits you.”

“I’m fine.” I look at the cute front stoops, the cherry trees, and the colorful café awnings. “I’m more than fine. I’m in London!” I spread my arms wide. “Let’s get started.”

“Okay, okay, Energizer Bunny.” St. Clair laughs. “I’m texting you an address where you can meet me in a few hours.” He gestures to the driver, who lifts my suitcase from the trunk and carries it up the stairs to the front door. “Go inside and get settled, and I’ll see you later.”

He turns to get back in the car. “Charles?” I say, my voice stopping him. “Really, thank you,” I tell him again. “This is incredible.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says, getting into the back seat. “We are still here for business.” He winks and shuts the door.

Inside, the apartment is an artist’s dream. It’s light and airy, open and full of homey touches like soft blankets on the comfy couch, a tea selection fanned out on a pretty plate, and a wall lined with lighted cabinets housing little statues and decorative vases.

The bedroom has a queen bed with a fluffy comforter, and a small desk in the corner with an ink jar and quill pen. I quickly unpack my things in the small closet and go through to the bathroom. There’s an actual claw-foot white porcelain tub and a jar of lavender bath salts, and I can’t wait to draw a bath and have long relaxing soak.

Even though St. Clair warned me about jet-lag, I don’t want to waste another moment indoors. I decide to go out and experience the culture. I stroll down the tree-lined streets, past vintage clothing stores with beautiful displays of dresses and shoes, and quaint cafes with metal folding chairs out front. It feels like a fairy tale. I actually live here! Even if it’s only temporary, it’s a dream I never imagined coming true. Mom, I hope you can see this.

A few hours later, freshened up and clothes changed, half a baguette and an apple in my stomach, I’m standing inside London College of Art waiting for St. Clair to come out of a meeting with the professors of the college. A display of student art installations sits in the center of the room, and it’s fun to look at what creativity the students are allowed to develop. I remember how much easier it was to take risks when there were safety nets and no real-world repercussions, and I miss the feeling of flying, of being so inspired you just jump and trust that where you land is where you’re supposed to be.

“Grace?” St. Clair is at my elbow. “Sorry that took so long. We’re finalizing the details of the show and as you know, artists can be…particular.”

I laugh. “That’s very diplomatic of you. Now, what show would that be?” I pull out my notebook and pen like a reporter, a trick I learned from Paige, who is always saying her notes are her lifesavers.

“Right,” St. Clair says, shaking his head like he can’t believe himself. “Sorry again. I haven’t even told you what you’ll be doing here, have I?”

“Not in so many words,” I admit.

“My company is sponsoring a graduation show for the college. It’s a whole event, with a huge opening the press will attend and all the big names in the industry. It’s a big honor for the students who are chosen to exhibit their final pieces.”

I nod. “I’m sure it can jumpstart careers. Change lives.”

He agrees, “It does, which is why the professors always bring in an impartial outside judge.”

“That’s a big task,” I say, figuring he must have to look at hundreds of portfolios. “Do you want me to vet the first round?”

He grins. “I want you to select the honorees.”

I catch my tongue before blurting out Me? like a moron. “Are you sure? It wasn’t so long ago I was a student myself.”

He leads me down a hallway. “I want to show you something.” We stop in front of a studio space, and I peer through the big glass window at five easels set up, with painters focused and working behind each. A professor wanders the room, critiquing, wiggling her fingers at some folks and gesturing wildly in sweeping motion with her arms at others.

The smell of paint and just-stretched canvas is thick in the air. I take a deep breath, letting memories of classes and afternoons spent with my brush guiding my hand wash