Page 43 of The Mafia’s Second Shot (Burning For You Again #3)

ZOEY

T he soft hum of the city filters through the open car window as Cooper drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console between us.

The tension of the past few weeks feels like a distant memory as we move through a quieter part of town, the chaos of our old lives temporarily replaced by a fragile peace.

“Where are we going?” I ask, glancing at him.

He smirks, his eyes flicking to me briefly. “You’ll see.”

“Cooper,” I press, narrowing my eyes. “You know I don’t like surprises.”

“You’ll like this one,” he says confidently.

We pull up in front of a charming brick building with large glass windows showcasing colorful paintings and sculptures.

My breath catches as I read the sign above the door: The Wyeth Gallery.

It’s a place I’ve dreamed of being part of for years, its reputation for nurturing new artists as vibrant as the work it displays.

“Cooper,” I whisper, turning to him. “What are we doing here?”

“You’ll see,” he repeats, stepping out of the car. He walks around to my side, opening the door with a flourish. “Come on.”

Inside, the gallery is a kaleidoscope of creativity. The walls are adorned with bold paintings and intricate sculptures, the air humming with quiet energy. A middle-aged woman with sharp eyes and an elegant scarf tied loosely around her neck approaches us, her smile warm but assessing.

“Mr. Cooper,” she says, extending a hand. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too, Evelyn,” he replies, shaking her hand. He gestures to me. “This is Zoey. The artist I was telling you about.”

My stomach flips. He’s been talking about me?

Evelyn’s smile widens, and she turns to me. “An artist? Wonderful. Do you have a portfolio with you?”

I glance at Cooper, panic flickering in my chest. “I—I didn’t know we were coming here,” I stammer. “I don’t have anything with me.”

“You do,” Cooper says, his tone calm as he pulls a sleek black folder from under his arm. “I brought it.”

I blink at him, speechless. “You?—”

“You left it on your desk,” he says, handing it to Evelyn. “Thought it might come in handy.”

Evelyn leads us to a small seating area at the back of the gallery, her movements graceful as she flips through my work. My heart pounds as I watch her, every glance she gives a piece making my nerves tighten.

“These are lovely,” she says finally, looking up at me. “You have a very distinct style. Emotionally resonant, but still modern. It’s refreshing.”

I manage a weak smile. “Thank you.”

“Have you exhibited before?” she asks.

“No,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve never really... put myself out there.”

“Well,” Evelyn says, setting the folder down. “I think it’s time you did. We have an exhibit coming up next month focused on emerging artists. I’d love to include some of your work.”

The words don’t register at first. I blink at her, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “You—you want to include me?”

Evelyn smiles. “Yes. If you’re interested, of course.”

I nod quickly, the words tumbling out of me. “Yes. Absolutely. Thank you.”

“Wonderful,” she says, standing. “I’ll have my assistant reach out to finalize the details. In the meantime, keep creating.”

As we leave the gallery, the cool evening air feels electric against my skin. I turn to Cooper, my emotions a whirlwind. “You planned this,” I accuse, though there’s no bite in my tone.

He shrugs, his smirk infuriatingly smug. “Maybe.”

I throw my arms around him, tears stinging my eyes. “Thank you.”

His arms tighten around me, his voice soft. “You don’t have to thank me, Zoey. You deserve this.”

I pull back, looking up at him. “I never would have done this without you.”

“You would have,” he says firmly. “Eventually. I just sped things up a little.”

The drive home is quieter, the excitement from earlier settling into a warm sense of accomplishment.

I can’t stop thinking about the exhibit, the possibilities it opens up, the future it promises.

But there’s something in Cooper’s expression—calm but contemplative—that makes me wonder what’s on his mind.

When we pull into the driveway, he turns to me, his hand brushing against mine. “I need to talk to you about something,” he says.

The seriousness in his tone makes my stomach flip. “What is it?”

He smiles faintly. “Not here. Let’s go inside.”

I nod, though the curiosity bubbling inside me is almost unbearable. As we step into the house, I can’t help but wonder what he’s been holding back—and why it feels like everything is about to change.