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Was he actually going to kiss me?

I sucked in a belated breath, closing my eyes. I was severely aware of everything happening around me. The warm, rhythmic splash of water hitting my arms. The cool breeze rushing past my shoulders. The five electric points of Greyson’s fingers gently pressing into the back of my neck. The minty smell of his breaths falling over mine. The darkening shadow of his head dipping closer, closer, closer.

I waited. I waited, and I waited, and I waited, but the press of his mouth on mine never came.

“Ihaveto go inside now,” he said instead, regret lacing his words.

The anticipation and excitement that had coiled itself inside my body fled for its life.He isn’t going to kiss me.

I swallowed thickly, clearing my throat and nodding as I opened my eyes. “Goodnight, Greyson,” I said. I was disappointed. Of course I was disappointed.

But the“Goodnight”he whispered against my lips still stayed with me all night.

Twenty-six After

HALF THE EVENINGpasses by in a blur. Flutes of bubbling champagne and small-bite appetizers have been passed around the room. Trays of them still float through the open space as guests mingle, discussing and studying the art around them.Myart.

It never gets old. Never ceases to amaze me that people are still interested in what I have to say, expressed on each canvas that lines these stark white walls. I glance up at the exposed ceiling, at the piped lighting overhead that illuminates the room. At the steel beam supports that hold this building’s structure together.

I’m hiding is what I’m doing. Behind the reception desk. Not avoiding anyone, per se. I just like to give the viewers some space, a little bit of time to take in the paintings without the pressure of the artist hovering. I like watching them from a small corner of the room, like studying the honesty in their expressions when their eyes land on a piece they connect with. It’s my favorite part, hands down. Also, it doesn’t hurt to sneak an extra flute or two of champagne in while I’m back here.

The receptionist, and my good friend, Ricky, swipes another off a passing server’s tray and holds it down to me with a knowing smirk.

“Thank you, Ricky. Now how about one of those cucumber sandwich thingies?” I throw him a ridiculous smile, taking the champagne from his offered hand.

“You’re pushing it, baby girl,” he says, and I laugh.

“Oh, please. You know you want one too.”

He holds out for a few seconds, pretending to think about it, before admitting, “You know I do. Those microscopic sandwiches are delectable. Be right back, babe.” He leaves me with a smile on my face and a flute of champagne in each hand.

Maggie rounds the corner of the reception desk in a haste. “Okay. Don’t be mad.”

“Mags, you can’t just start a sentence like that,” I say. “It immediately sets me up for failure. Why do you look so nervous? What happened? What’s going on?” One sentence runs into the next.

She doesn’t say anything, turning to the large doorway of the gallery instead. Greyson steps through with enough grace to be a member of the royal family. Dressed top to bottom in a dark, perfectly fitted suit.

My pulse immediately picks up speed. “What the hell did you do?” I whisper, as loudly as can be deemed appropriate for a whisper. So pretty much, I whisper-yell the question loud enough that Greyson looks straight over at me. Thankfully, the rest of the crowd seems to be oblivious to my outburst. I set one of the two champagne flutes down on the counter and tug my friend into my personal space. “Seriously, Maggie, explain yourself right now, because Greyson is walking this way and you only have about three seconds to tell me all about how you’ve lost your damn mind!” I finish through a set of veryclenched teeth.

Is it hot in here?It’s definitely hot in here.

And her time is up.

“Hi, Jess. I hope you don’t mind that I’m here,” Greyson says as he steps before us, all calm and confidence.

“No, of course not.” I laugh nervously. “Thank you for coming.” I reach my hand out to shake his. Like a lunatic. Except that thisismy art showing, and I tend to shake hands and thank everyone who walks through those doors, so it’s completely normal and not awkward at all.Keep telling yourself that, Jess.

“Great. That’s great.” He smiles and slides his hand into mine, and it nearly kills me. Everything just kind of stops moving and pumping and circulating inside my body, ceasing to keep me alive. For at least a few stuttering seconds, I’m sure of it. “I’m going to go take a look around. Hopefully we can catch up later?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say before really thinking too much about it. I seem to have lost the ability to string more than two coherent thoughts together at once. That, and I’ve got a friend or three to grill at the moment.

He steps away and submerges himself in the crowd, and I feel a small pang of loss at his disappearance. I’d give anything to see his face when he takes in that first painting. So many of them are of him, or about him, in one shape or another. The broken pieces of myself I pieced back together after he left.

Will he see it? Will he recognize that?I guess I’ll soon find out.

I spin around on Maggie. “Explain. Now.”

She’s all wide eyes and guilt. Guilty, guilty, guilty. “Please don’t be mad. I just…I saw how sad you were at dinner the other night, and I couldn’t help myself. I figured passing the information along about the opening wouldn’t be such a big deal. Either he’d come, or he wouldn’t. I mean, you’re glad he’s here, right?”