Page 21 of Redamancy (Fated Fixation #2)

Now, where the hell did LuAnne and Joe end up?

Unfortunately, the room is exponentially more crowded than it was an hour ago, and I wind through a sea of dark clothes, my eyes peeled for any sign of honey-brown eyes.

Did they leave already?

I turn toward the entrance, and— no way.

My heart stutters, and I blink just to make sure I’m really seeing who I think I am, but Adrian Ellis is not the kind of man you mistake for anyone else.

He’s here.

He’s actually here.

Illuminated by the gallery lights, Adrian looks like he should be the one on display tonight, his dark curls styled neatly and his all-black ensemble doing absolutely nothing to hide the lean physique beneath.

He’s really here.

And I don’t have time to examine the why or the how or the what questions that may be attached to that realization because, as soon as he hands his coat off to the closest attendant, he looks over and his eyes find mine.

My breath hitches, and I don’t know how to describe the imperceptible shift in the air, or why it feels different from any other time we’ve locked eyes across a crowded room, but it’s there—a charged current flowing between us that’s impossible to ignore.

And I’m pretty sure he feels it too, judging by the intensity that sparks in his pitch eyes as he strides over.

“Sweetheart,” he says, and the name— that name—is a shock to the system that I’m not expecting. “You look beautiful tonight.”

I’m also not expecting him to lean down and pull me in for a hug, but he does, his large hand cradling the back of my neck in a way that feels too intimate for a room full of strangers.

What is going on?

I’m pretty sure I’m doing my best impression of a deer caught in the headlights of a semi-truck when he pulls back, but I manage a weak, “You came.”

His head cocks to the side. “Of course I came.”

My entire body, brain included, still buzzes with the electricity, and I take a moment to blink through the static.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” I say.

Why can I still feel the heat of his fingers on the back of my neck?

“You haven’t told me anything, actually,” I continue. “For days now.” It takes significant effort to hold onto the anger and disappointment and all the other sensible emotions that existed before he strode through the door, looking like one of Michelangelo’s creations.

“I’m sorry.” He glances down, looking sheepish. “It’s been an incredibly busy week. There’s been a lot of things to set in motion—but I figured I could still surprise you.”

I’d probably believe him if I thought Adrian Ellis was capable of feeling sheepish about anything.

I just smile tightly. “Consider me surprised.”

A long, drawn-out pause, and he looks like he wants to say something—but I beat him to the punch. “I’m going to get a drink,” I announce. “Why don’t I grab one for the both of us?”

***

I expect someone to have roped Adrian into conversation by the time I return, wine in hand, but he’s still alone, staring up at one canvas tacked to the wall.

My stomach plummets when I see which one has grabbed his attention.

Of course.

“You painted me.” It’s not a question, and he doesn’t turn to look at me as I approach, so I have no way of telling his facial expression.

“I did.” I don’t see the point in denying it, not when Adrian Ellis is as impossible to miss in an abstract painting as he is in real life. “On a couple of these canvases, actually.”

Finally, he turns around, completely unreadable. “Why?”

Why?

The question takes me by surprise, and I blink, a storm of alcohol-fueled emotions welling up inside me. “Because…”

Because I can’t tell the story of my darkness without including bits of yours.

Because, even after all this time, I’m worried you’ve burrowed so deeply inside of my soul that I’ll never be able to separate the pieces.

Because I told myself I wouldn’t let you consume me, and it’s exactly what you’ve done.

“Because,” I swallow. “I think you already know.”

His dark eyes gleam.

At least some of it, I think. You must know some of it.

Adrian takes the glass of wine I hold out for him. “You must be ecstatic,” he says. “All your hard work coming to fruition like this. I’ve heard nothing but compliments from the other patrons.”

I try to smile enthusiastically, but I’ve done so much of it tonight that the muscles in my cheeks only get halfway there. “Ecstatic. That’s the the word for it.”

His brow raises. “Or not?”

“It’s not that,” I try again. “I am ecstatic.”

“But?”

How is that he’s able to see through me every single time?

“It’s just…” I blame my loose lips on this being my third glass of wine. “I guess I thought tonight would feel more like mine. ”

There’s no judgment in his eyes. “And it doesn’t?”

I glance behind me to make sure there’s nobody close enough to eavesdrop.

“Besides that being my art on the walls, no,” I answer honestly.

“This feels like Ocean’s show. She’s the one fielding all the questions about it, and it feels like I’m just another part of her spectacle.

” Bitterness leaks into my voice. “A prop.”

Adrian doesn’t immediately respond, and I start to feel sorry.

“I know how stupid it sounds,” I shake my head.

“All woe-is-me-and-my-once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, right? It doesn’t really matter, anyway.

My feeling important or seen tonight is not the goal.

Selling all this—” I gesture to my paintings.

“—that’s what is important. Making connections is what’s important.

And if I need to blend into the background while Ocean makes that happen, then fair enough. ”

“It does matter,” Adrian says quietly, and I look up at him, breath catching when I spot the severity in his gaze.

“You should always feel seen.” He takes a step toward me, and I feel it—that current still there, still sparking between us.

“You should never walk into a room and feel anything less than the most important thing inside it.”

It’s this exact second I know I’m a goner—because this moment is the closest thing to ecstasy I’ve felt all night, and he’s not even touching me.

Stupid, I think. All those boundaries, all those rules…I never really stood a chance the moment he stepped foot in New York City.

I’ve let myself be consumed by a man who couldn’t even tell me he loves me the first time…and now what?

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

I have no clue, but I need space.

I need to think.

For the second time tonight, I take a step back. “Uh, I should find Ocean. See if there’s anything else she needs from me.”

My emotional retreat is obvious, and Adrian frowns. “Of course.”

I just need some space.

I just need to think.

I just need to figure out what the hell to do with this…connection that’s emerged tonight.

Did it emerge tonight? Or has it always been here, drawing us tog—

“Oh, Poppy. There you are!” Ocean detaches from another group of high-profile curators and sidles up to me. “I wanted to make sure I caught you before things started winding down for the night. I have excellent news.”

My heart skips a beat. “Is someone interested in purchasing one of my pieces?”

Hopefully, more than one.

She waves me off, the bangles on her wrist jingling. “Oh, that’s already been handled. I’m talking about Anne Yannick. She wants to feature you in next month’s—”

“Wait,” I cut in. “What do you mean that’s already been handled ?”

She pauses. “Oh, well, I don’t normally discuss financial implications until we’ve got the paperwork in front of us, but since you’re asking, yes. You have a buyer.”

I suck in a breath. “Someone bought one of my pieces. Do you know which one?”

Ocean blinks. “I think you misunderstand me. There’s one buyer for your entire collection.”

I’m almost positive I stop breathing altogether. “Like…the whole thing?”

She nods.

Holy shit.

I’ve made twenty grand tonight.

Well, I correct myself. More like fifteen once the gallery takes its cut—but still.

“And this is a done deal?” I ask. “Like, money-in-the-bank done?”

Ocean nods again. “We’re just waiting on the last of the paperwork,” she explains. “But yes, the collection has been purchased.”

I shake my head, still baffled. “When did this happen?”

“We received the call a couple of hours before the show,” she tells me, and my jaw drops.

“ Before the show?”

“It’s unusual,” she explains. “But it happens from time to time. We release photos of the collection online twenty-four hours before the exhibit, and occasionally, buyers will snatch the pieces up before they’ve been shown.”

Fifteen grand.

I made fifteen grand before I ever walked in the door tonight.

It feels surreal, no matter how many times I repeat the number in my head.

“The only true odd thing about this sale,” she continues.

“Is just the timing of it all. Usually, regardless of any sales made, we keep the collection for another month, so the public can stop in and view it during regular business hours…but your buyer insisted on having it immediately.” She sighs, with an edge of exhaustion in her voice.

“We’ll have to ship them off this week.”

“That does seem odd to—” And then I pause, a particular thought dawning on me.

No way.

“Ocean,” I say. “Who was the buyer?”

“I’m not sure,” she shrugs. “It was an anonymous purchase—which doesn’t surprise me. A lot of high-profile buyers like to keep their names off these sorts of purchases. They don’t want to end up as the headline of some trashy pop culture article dissecting their aesthetic choices.”

High-profile doesn’t mean anything, I tell myself. Anyone buying twenty grand worth of art—plus exorbitant shipping costs—is going to have a higher profile.

“Do you remember anything about the caller? Or what they sounded like?” I ask, and when she offers me an odd look, I add: “It’s just...I’m so spiritually connected to these pieces, Ocean. I need to know they’re going to a buyer with the right kind of energy.”

Her face softens. “I understand. It’s hard for me to discern energies over the phone, but the buyer sounded feminine. And they had an accent…British, I think.”

I loose a relieved sigh.

Okay.

A feminine, British buyer.

Probably not Adrian, then.

“Speaking of energies,” Ocean says, folding her hands together. “Yours seem…unbalanced tonight.”

Well, I’ve spent the entire night feeling like one of your props, I’m trying to figure out my very non-platonic feelings for my ex-boyfriend, and I’ve apparently made fifteen grand…unbalanced sounds about right, I want to say.

Instead, I just rub the back of my neck awkwardly. “I mean, it’s been a pretty long night.”

“No, that’s not it.” Ocean examines me like I’m a staticky radio station she’s trying to tune into. “You’re…torn about something. A conflict between the head and the heart.”

My stomach somersaults. “Something like that.”

As in: my heart and my heart are in all-out civil war right now.

I expect her to pry me for more details, but she only hums thoughtfully. “You should listen to your heart.”

A quiet scoff escapes. “How do you know that?”

She cocks her head to the side. “Well, you’ve listened to your head thus far, and you’re not satisfied with where it’s gotten you. Maybe it’s time to give the other organ a shot.”

I open my mouth, brimming with follow-up questions, but she squeezes my shoulder one last time and takes off into the crowd.

What the hell?

Any other night, in any other context, I’d laugh if someone told me to follow my heart—but Ocean’s words linger.

Put that way, it sounds so simple.

Ignore head, follow heart.

Reject logic, pursue emotion.

Shirk every self-preservation instinct that’s been hard-wired into my brain, and just…give in. Follow this current wherever it leads—devastating heartbreak, possible death, and all other potential consequences be damned.

Is temporary satisfaction with Adrian worth whatever ruination might follow?

My body answers for me.

I move through the crowd, the offender in question pounding against my ribcage but— where is he?

As tall as he is, it’s plainly obvious he’s no longer in the atrium, and my stomach plummets.

He left? Already?

New York’s below-freezing chill stings as I step outside, but not nearly as much as the realization that I don’t see a black BMW parked anywhere nearby.

He’s actually gone.

I exhale, the cold soaking into my bones like a well-deserved punishment.

And I’ve missed my moment.

“Sweetheart?”

My heart lurches.

I whip around, half-convinced I must be hallucinating, but Adrian stands less than five feet away on the sidewalk, his phone pressed to his ear. “Give me a moment,” he says to whoever is on the other line. “I’ll call you back.”

There’s a lump building in my throat as he strides over. “You didn’t leave.”

“Of course not,” he says. “I just stepped out for a work call. Where’s your coat?”

He’s already begun shedding his, and my stomach flip-flops when he steps close to drape the fabric over my shoulders.

It smells just like him—cedar and clean, freshly laundered sheets—and I inhale deeply.

I could live with this scent. Forever.

Adrian goes to step back, but I reach out and snag his forearm.

He stills.

He stares down at me, eyes gleaming with…curiosity? Interest? I can’t decipher the specific emotion in his gaze—only that it doesn’t look like fear or revulsion, and that’s enough encouragement for me.

Devastating heartbreak, possible death…

The familiar consequences run through my head, but this time, I switch gears.

Heart over head.

Ruin over self-preservation.

And then I lean up and kiss Adrian.