Page 383 of His Virgin Romance Series

Dad just stared ahead, but I saw him nod out of the corner of my eye. It was the tiniest gesture on his part, but it meant a lot to me.

“So,” Mom said, turning to me. “How are you?”

Dad was still looking at my paintings on the wall behind me. “Uh… I’m okay.” I nodded.

“And… how is Gabby?”

I paused. “She’s… we’re no longer together,” I admitted.

I saw Mom’s face drop visibly, and Dad looked towards me with an unreadable expression.

“You can say it,” I said before they could beat me to the punch. “I deserve that.”

“Shame,” Dad said. “We liked her.”

Coming from him, that was high praise, and it said a lot about Gabby that she had managed to melt my parents to a degree. Apparently, she had been the only thing about my life that they had approved of. I hated to admit it, but it stung. However, I tried to tell myself that the fact that they had shown up here at all was a big deal. Maybe this was their step towards me. Maybe this was their way of saying that they wanted a relationship with me.

“We should look around,” Dad said, putting an abrupt end to our conversation.

“Thank you for coming,” I told them.

I milled around the gallery, talking to people and trying not to drink too many glasses of wine. I needed to keep my wits about me, but as the night drew on, I realized I was just waiting for Gabby to show up.

“Fucking hell, man, you must be thrilled,” Zack said, grabbing me by the shoulders from behind and shaking me a little.

“What do you mean?” I asked, turning around impatiently.

“You sold two fucking paintings, dude.”

I stared at him for a moment. “Are you serious?”

“There are two little ‘sold’ stickers on two of your paintings,” Zack told me. “Unless I’m mistaken, I think that means you’re a little richer.”

I headed over to where my collection had been displayed, and I saw that Zack was right. Two of my paintings, ‘The River’ and ‘The Dreamer,’ had apparently been sold, and both were had been priced at five thousand dollars each. I did a little quick math in my head and realized that I would be taking home eight thousand dollars. It seemed slightly surreal. Was this really happening to me?

I headed straight for Gordon and had to interrupt an animated conversation he was having with a well-dressed middle-aged woman with a shaved head.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Gordon asked. “That was Clarissa Meyers I was talking to.”

“The art critic?” I asked.

“Yes.” Gordon nodded pointedly.

“Introduce me to her later,” I said unapologetically. “I need to ask you something.”

Gordon groaned. “It is true what they say about artists… so difficult.”

I ignored that and went on. “Have two of my paintings been sold?”

“They have.” Gordon nodded.

“Really?”

“Those ‘sold’ stickers are no joke,” Gordon said impatiently. “I should have negotiated a fifty percent cut for myself. I just didn’t think you’re work would sell.”

I ignored that too. “The Muse is not for sale,” I said.

“What?”

---