Page 12 of The Sweet Life

He nodded, then lifted his chin at the path. “I’ll walk you home.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” He glanced at her. “Unless you’d prefer that I didn’t.”

“No, it’s fine,” she said as they walked down the path. “What were you doing down here anyway?”

He removed his phone from the pocket of his cargo shorts and held it up. “Photographing Sunshine Bay at night. It’s a hobby of mine. Photography, not photographing Sunshine Bay at night,” he said with a self-conscious smile.

“You won’t share the photograph you took of me, will you? Even with Willow? I don’t want anyone to know.”

“Of course not. I’d like to keep it, but if you want me to, I’ll delete it.”

“I don’t know why you took it of me in the first place.”

“A gorgeous woman sitting among the flowers with the moon shining down on her? I don’t know who could have resisted taking a photo of you in that moment. I am sorry I startled you, though. I should have realized I would have. You were completely absorbed in your painting.” He held up his camera, the picture of her on the screen. “I don’t think I did you justice. I took a couple without the flash.” He swiped the screen. “And then I took this one.”

She leaned in, viewing the photos objectively. “I like thecomposition and contrast. You have a good eye.” She swiped through the other photos. “This one’s cool. I like how you captured the moon.” She nudged him with a smile. “Imagine what you could do with an actual camera.”

He laughed. “I have an actual camera. I recently retired my old Nikon and splurged on a Sony a7 IV.” He nodded at the sand. “Do you want to sit for a minute?”

“Sure.” She followed him to a spot just down from her apartment. The glow from the lamp she’d left on in her studio window cast a circle in the sand.

“The reason I didn’t have my camera on me was because I hadn’t planned on taking photos tonight.” He leaned back on his hands, crossing his sneakered feet at the ankles.

“No?”

“No. I didn’t like how we left things earlier. Willow had mentioned that you sometimes paint late at night so I walked down this way in the hope you might still be up. I wanted to apologize.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Flynn. It’s me. I overreacted with both you and Willow. I’m sorry.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She laughed. “No, thanks. I’ve talked about my sister enough for one night.”

“Okay. How about you tell me why you decided to become a street artist? Because, Gia, Willow has shown me some of your work, and you really are incredibly talented.” He raised a hand when Gia opened her mouth. “Don’t get me wrong, the mural on Surfside, the one you did on the public library, and this one tonight, they’re amazing too, but those guys are right. You’re giving away your talent for free.”

“Maybe, but I haven’t felt like this in years. I think it’s the anonymity. It’s freeing. No expectations, no pressure. I was blocked before, never satisfied with what I painted, and now…” She smiled. “I’m having fun again.”

“I get that, I guess. But from what Willow said, you were on your way to quite a career before you gave it up for them.”

Gia frowned. “Is that what Willow said?”

“Yeah. It sounded like she and Sage feel the same way.”

At one point in her life, Gia had thought she could at least make a decent living from her art. She’d had a showing at an exclusive gallery in New York City. The gallery’s owner had been vacationing in Sunshine Bay and had seen her work in one of the local galleries. Her future had seemed so bright and full of promise then.

“Well, they’re wrong. It had nothing to do with them.” And everything to do with her ex. “But my mom, my sister, and I are partners in La Dolce Vita. The restaurant is my main focus now. This”—she waved her hand at the Harrises’ garden—“is for fun.”

“You might be doing it for fun, but from what I’ve seen, you’re bringing joy to the people lucky enough to receive the gift of one of your murals.”

“Thank you,” she said, touched. “Maybe you’d like to tell my mother that. She says the murals are an eyesore. She’s on a campaign to have them removed.”

“Seriously? No wonder you want to stay anonymous. Who is J.R., anyway?”

“Me, and yes, before you say it,Giadoes begin with aG. But when I was younger, I hated my name as much as I hated the old-fashioned dresses our nonna insisted we wearto school. All I wanted was to fit in, so I called myself Jane and insisted everyone do the same. Not my nonna, bisnonna, or mother, obviously. But by sixth grade, I was ready to embrace my heritage and who I was and went back to Gia. It’s so long ago I doubt anyone remembers so I felt safe signing my work as J.R.”

“You are as beautiful as your name, Gia Rosetti.” He reached for her hand, gently rubbing at the speckles of paint with his thumb. “Any chance you’d go out with me?”

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