Page 66 of I Wish I Would’ve Warned You (Forbidden Wishes #3)

EMILY

C ole’s gallery sits on a bluff above the Gulf Shores, tucked into the white dunes like it was always meant to be there. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the crashing waves, flooding the space with light that dances across polished concrete floors and canvas after canvas of his work.

Today is the grand opening.

The salty air hums with voices. Tourists wander in from the beach, still smelling of sunscreen and sea breeze, tracking sand across the rug-lined walkways. Some linger over each piece, admiring the brushstrokes. Others move quickly, asking about prices, the artist, us .

His bestsellers—unsurprisingly—are the ones that feature us.

A silhouetted kiss on a rooftop. A garden wrapped in laughter. A girl looking out to sea, painted in soft blues and gold.

Each one feels like a secret we once whispered in the dark.

But when people ask about the inspiration, Cole just smiles. Quiet. Evasive.

“Just a muse,” he says. “A story that painted itself.”

He doesn’t have to say more.

I’m here, leaning against the back wall, sipping lemonade and pretending not to watch him.

He still takes my breath away. Even in a paint-flecked white shirt and dark jeans, he’s more captivating than anything on the walls.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, suddenly at my side.

“Am not,” I lie, cheeks flushing.

He leans in and kisses my temple. “You’re in every frame, you know.”

“Not every one,” I say, pointing to a still life near the bar. “That’s just fruit.”

“I was thinking of you when I painted that too.” He grins.

I roll my eyes.

As sunset spills amber light across the gallery, the crowd thins. Cole slides his hand into mine, fingers lacing like he never plans to let go.

“Ready to leave them wondering?” he asks.

“Always.”

We step outside into the breeze, the ocean rising to meet us.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m not running from anything.

I’m walking toward something that’s ours.

Something lasting.

Something true.