Page 5 of Billion Dollar Vow (The Lincoln Brothers #4)

Karley

Inside, the scent of paint instantly hits me as I unlock the door.

I head to the small desk in the corner where the art supplies are neatly organized.

Turning on the radio, music fills the room as I begin setting up for the party of six.

Something catches my eye in the light: a white note folded by the paint jars.

Karley

I brought new paints. They’re in the cupboard. There’s only one party tonight, so feel free to stay back and paint if you want.

Tills

I smile at her generosity. I’ve been working at Tills’ for a few years now.

Tills is my brother’s girlfriend’s mom, and this place has become a second home to me.

My brother mentioned my love of art, and he was the one who encouraged me to ditch my part-time office assistant job to work here.

I couldn’t say no; it’s a dream come true.

It hardly feels like work. Till trusts me completely and lets me use supplies whenever I have spare time, no questions asked.

Hosting the parties is fun too. Occasionally, I get a few stuck-up guests; the kind who roll their eyes when they can’t figure out the brushstrokes or sigh dramatically when the paint doesn’t do what they want.

They’re the ones who treat this like a joke, dismissing the process with every complaint.

But I’ve learned to let it roll off me because it’s just a part of the job.

Most of the time, though, it’s pure joy watching them create.

Those moments make the annoying ones worth it.

I start setting up wine glasses beside each easel and arrange platters of fruit, sandwiches, and pastries that Tills has ordered from a nearby deli. Grabbing canvases, I prop them up on the easels and get the idea book ready for the birthday girl to choose from.

With a few minutes to spare, I switch the radio to the work playlist. Chatter outside the door draws my attention.

I glance at the clock, seeing it’s five.

Right on time. Moving closer, I open it and greet them with a smile.

Most of the women look to be in their late twenties, wearing flowy dresses and laughing a bit too loudly already.

But I can tell the vibe’s going to be fun.

“Hello, welcome to Tills’ Sip N’ Paint! I’m your host, Karley. Who’s Natasha?” I ask, scanning the group.

A woman with long blonde hair and a black pant suit steps forward, her hand raised, wearing a badge that says thirty-two. “That's me.”

“Happy birthday!” I greet her warmly.

“Thank you!” she says, her smile wide and bright.

“Come on in. Introduce yourself as you pass by so I can catch everyone’s name,” I say, stepping aside.

Natasha steps in first, followed by Jennifer, Gracie, Ava, Abigail, and Sara. I close the door behind them, watching as they squeal over the setup.

“This is adorable,” one of them gushes, eyeing the easels and food spread.

While they settle in, nibbling on the food, I head to the fridge, grab the wine, and pour each a glass. “Alright, sorry to interrupt, but Natasha, I need you to pick which painting everyone will work on tonight.” Part of me hopes she chooses a challenging piece to make the class more interesting.

She jumps out of her chair and walks over to me. Flipping through the idea book, she points to a giraffe with flowers on its head. “This one.”

“Good choice.” I smile. The design is cute and girly, perfect for the group. I pin it up on the wall so everyone can see. “Feel free to put your own twist on it. Change the flowers, the background, the colors. Make it your own. But first, let’s get a group photo.”

They gather at the front of the room, huddled close together, arms around each other, their happiness palpable.

I snap a picture before they put on their smocks and take their seats.

Once settled, I give them step-by-step instructions, making sure they understand the basic techniques.

When I finish, I announce, “Now go have fun.” They chatter and dive straight into their painting, brushes dipping into colorful palettes.

I walk around, snapping candid photos of their progress to send Natasha later, offering advice, topping off drinks, and making sure they have everything they need.

Over the next hour, the room grows louder and messier as paint splashes everywhere. The chatter picks up, a mixture of laughter, jokes, and the occasional clinking of wine glasses. Once they’ve put the final touches on their paintings, I call them together.

“Alright, everyone, let’s see your masterpieces. Natasha, you go first.”

Laughing, she steps forward, holding her painting up for everyone to see.

Her giraffe has a big head and a bright pink background.

It’s adorable. We make our way around the room, complimenting each person’s work, but when we get to the woman whose name I’ve been trying (and failing) to remember, she stares at her canvas like it’s betrayed her.

“Okay, I have to warn you… it’s really bad,” she blurts out, then laughs too loudly, like she’s trying to cover up how uncomfortable she is.

I take a look at the painting, it’s not what I expected, so I give her a reassuring smile, wanting to let her know that it’s okay. I’ve seen plenty of paintings that weren’t perfect, but that’s part of the fun.

Natasha requests another group photo, so they all line up, holding their paintings with smiles. Just as I’m about to take it, the same woman who wasn’t feeling confident in her painting suddenly rips her canvas in half, letting the torn artwork fall to the floor.

The sound makes my blood run cold, and suddenly, I’m back in my childhood home.

My mother’s cruel laughter echoes in my ears, mocking my drawings, while my father rips them up right in front of me.

“No one wants to see that,” he’d say. “You’re useless.

” My mother always agreed. But my brother would comfort me once they left, telling me I did a good job, that I’m talented, and to not give up.

I take a deep breath, shaking off the memory, wanting the birthday girl to have a good night. I’m cleaning it up as the woman who’d been frustrated helps gather the scraps of her artwork. The others exchange some glances. One even offers a soft, “Hey, it’s okay. You can always start again.”

She nods silently, still holding the torn pieces of the canvas.

The party’s atmosphere has turned awkward, and before I can speak to turn it around, Abigail clears her throat and changes the subject. “I’ve been looking to buy art for my husband,” she says. “It’s our wedding anniversary soon.”

My ears perk up at the mention of art. “Do you have a place in mind, or do you need a recommendation?” I ask.

“He loves a piece from Lincoln’s Gallery. I have an appointment with a consultant named Oliver.”

My stomach tightens at the mention of his name. I force a smile. “It’s one of the best galleries in New York,” I say sweetly, though bile rises in my throat.

Abigail’s face relaxes. “Good. It’s very expensive.”

“You’re in good hands with Oliver,” I assure her. “Now, let me call your ride.”

As they take selfies and get ready to leave, I organize the ride service and help them into the car.

Once they’re gone, I begin cleaning up, but my muscles are tense from the torn canvas and at hearing Oliver’s rich and entitled name.

I need to relax before going home to my brother… his best friend .

I grab a blank canvas and decide to paint the giraffe myself, drawn to its flowers.

At first, my strokes are shaky, but after a few minutes, I lose myself in the painting.

My body sinks into the chair, and my movements become smoother.

I let the music fill the space, pushing away any thoughts from my mind, savoring the peace that washes over me.