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Classical music plays in the background, creating a calming vibe.
She reaches her hand out for me and interlocks our fingers. “Can I take the tour?”
“Yes, please.” I lean over, kissing her forehead gently, loving being able to share this with her.
We start at the first room, and she studies each painting withwide-eyed wonder. I wish I could see this through her eyes as she takes her time with each piece. Her expression shifts from joy to deep thought, her feelings written on her face.
After we’ve seen half of the paintings, she narrows her eyes at me. There’s a flicker of intensity in her gaze.
“What?” I ask with a laugh, feeling the lightness in the air.
“Nothing,” she singsongs as we step into a larger area.
Her brows knit together as my artwork shifts to a more intense tone. The colors are darker, each brushstroke full of emotion. I think I catch her wipe away a tear. She squeezes my hand tightly, grounding me.
“I feel your pain and sadness in this,” she mutters.
“It’s all a part of the story. Without the storms, we’d never enjoy the sunshine,” I say, brushing my fingers against her cheek and sliding my lips across hers. “You’re the sunshine, Carlee.”
An archway leads us to a big, empty room, and she takes a deep breath. It’s the final showpiece. Two overhead lights illuminate the large white wall. Under one display is nothingness—a blank wall. Next to it is a lone painting, off-center.
As we approach the exhibit, our shadows flicker across the floor.
She reads the plaque before we enter. “The Missing Piece.”
Her gaze lingers on the empty hook, then shifts to the painting beside it. It’s a green pasture dotted with rolling hills and lush forests encased in a thick golden frame. The scene breathes with new life. It’s peaceful and inviting.
As I stare at it, a chill races up my spine. It looksexactlylike Carlee’s family Christmas tree farm in Merryville.
I watch her expression shift, the colors of her emotions changing like paint on an artist’s palette. Her breathing grows uneven. It’s like she’s finally putting the pieces together.
“Wes,” she whispers. There’s a storm brewing in her pretty green eyes.
“Yes, gorgeous?” I ask, keeping my gaze on her.
“Will you please take that painting off the wall?” Her voice shakes, and I see goose bumps form on her arms. The hairs on her neck stand as electricity fills the space between us.
I reach forward, lifting the artwork off the wall, and turn it around for her to see. The weight of the moment feels as heavy as the golden frame in my hands.
She covers her mouth, and tears start to flow, tracing paths down her cheeks like streams.
“The Other Side,” she says, reading the original title inscribed on the back of the canvas. “I haveNew Beginnings. It’s this painting’s match.”
“You have the missing piece.” I carefully place the painting back on the wall. “I’ve been looking for it for five years.”
In an instant, our mouths collide, an explosion of raw emotion, and tears stream down both our faces.
“How did it go missing?”
“Lena stole it and I never knew what she did with it. Honestly, I thought she destroyed it because I loved it so much. Instead of removing the display, I renamed the feature out of spite. When I saw you had my lost painting, it took my breath away …” I trail off, shaking my head in disbelief.
“Invisible strings. A confirmation of us,” she says as she looks at me in a different light. “You’re one of my favorite artists.”
I chuckle, and my heart swells. “Thisis what it took for you tofinallyfangirl over me?”
Her hands glide down my chest, and she smirks. “Artists are hot. Especially the ones who wear tailored suits and slide diamond rings onto my finger.”
Our lips meet again, and I lose myself with her beneath the soft, low-lit lights of the gallery.