Page 76 of My Sweetest Agony

I can wait.

But as I start to turn away, to try to slip out before he sees me, my eye catches a painting along the wall to the far left, and I freeze mid-step, a gasp falling from my lips precisely as the song blaring from the speakers in the corners of the room ends.

Shit.

Cam’s head jerks to the side, and he looks over his shoulder at me as I do the same, tearing my gaze from what stopped my retreat.

His eyes widen slightly.

But I can’t keep looking at him.

Not when that painting is standing there.

From the corner of my eye, I see him look away from me, dropping his head, resting his forearms on his knees for a moment before he pushes to his full height and turns from the canvas on the floor to face me.

The brush dangles from his right hand, black paint dripping from it onto the tarp at his feet, but he doesn’t say anything as the next song starts up, merely watches me as I slowly approach the painting that made me stop.

The one I’ve seen dozens of times—because it hung in the Oval Office under the previous administration and was shown on television constantly in the background.

A black and white image of a smiling little girl holding a heart-shaped balloon.

My gaze dips to the signature on the bottom right of the canvas.

Cush.

The name flashes through my head, along with dozens of newspaper articles and internet blogs about the mysterious street artist who no one has ever identified. Stunning images that just appear painted on the sides of buildings. Canvases that create bidding wars at auctions…

My breath catches, and I shake my head slightly, trying to get my thoughts to form into anything coherent as I turn back toward him. “I don’t understand.”

He clears his throat. “This is…what I do for a living.”

“Drew and your mom said you worked at an art gallery.”

The corner of his lips twitches slightly, and he rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, his cheeks pinkening as if my question somehow embarrassed him. “That’s half true. I own one in London that only features my work.”

Holy shit.

His work.

His work.

This is his.

Camden Usher is CUSH.

I open and close my mouth a few times as my mind continues to spin. “How did I not know any of this? Why didn’t they or you tell me?”

He releases a little sigh. “I asked them not to tell anyone, so I could maintain my anonymity. And as to the second part, why I didn’t tell you…” His shoulders rise and fall. “I don’t know. It just…didn’t come up.”

It didn’t come up.

I gape at him.

It didn’t come up that he’s one of the most famous artists in the world and that his art goes for literally millions of dollars.

The paintings in this studio alone are worth a fortune.

And they deserve to be.