Page 52 of Painted in Love

She trailed her fingers from his nape to his shoulder. “You get it.”

“I do,” he said. “It’ll really help people.”

He wanted to pull her onto his lap, kiss her until they were both breathless. But he had to tell her all his thoughts first. “No one has ever gotten through to me in the way you have. I wish I’d told you that earlier.” He closed his eyes briefly, then reached for her hand, stroked her knuckles with his thumb. “I called an emergency mastermind session with the family.” When she made a little hmm of a question, he explained, “We get together once a month to go over any issues each of us may have. Just talking with them—” He let out a laugh. “—especially Fernsby, helped me see how right you were.”

“I met Fernsby the other day, right? When he came in to see Charlie Ballard’s sculpture?”

He nodded. “That’s Fernsby. He’s Dane’s butler, but honestly, he’s way more than that. Don’t ever tell him I said this?—”

She scoffed. “I’ll probably never see him again.”

He wanted to tell her that he hoped she’d see Fernsby over and over. But that would be pushy. “That man always knows the right thing to say at exactly the right moment. He made me see—in fact, all of them made me see—that I’ve been creating a fake Disneyland at Art Space where never a harsh word is spoken.”

She smiled at him, and he thought there might be tears in her eyes. “You really do get it.”

He held her hand to his cheek. “You made me see that people can learn from the harsh words if they’re open to hearing what’s behind them.”

Those tears blurred her eyes. “That’s right. Because you won’t always be there to fix things.”

“It’s my job to provide ways for all my artists to handle the bad times without going off the deep end.”

He realized now what his brothers and sisters had been trying to tell him all along. He remembered words like, It’s a lofty goal, and it’s amazing you want to do this. But are you really sure you can pull it off?

He’d always been so sure he could. He owned galleries, sold the artists’ work, provided virtual galleries, and made sure everyone got a showing. He acted as their agent, taking a small percentage because that agent’s fee made them feel like real artists. He’d thought it was working, but Saskia had shown him something was missing.

He reeled her in, set his arms around her waist. “I have all these warehouses full of artists creating amazing art, and I never weigh in on it because even though I’m not artistic myself, I understand that the artist has to create their own vision.” He looked at her for a long moment. “It was like you with Dylan. You understood where the artist in him was coming from, maybe from your experience with San Holo.”

She ran her fingers through his hair. “I’ve had a lot of experience in the art world. But you understand artists too. Now you’ve learned something as well. Your heart wanted to fix things. But you see that, ultimately, they have to fix it for themselves.”

He closed his eyes, relishing the feel of her fingers on his scalp. “You have such wisdom about the artistic temperament.” Then he looked at her. “I’m really surprised you didn’t continue with your own art, with all your insight.”

She said with a shrug, “Given the artist I work with, I’ve learned so much over the years.”

He could resist no longer and pulled her onto his lap, right where he’d wanted her from the moment she walked into the apartment. He held her tightly with all the feeling he had, all the gratitude for how she’d made him see when he’d wanted to shut his eyes. Then he kissed her with all the passion filling his soul.

Clay kissed her until she couldn’t breathe, until they were so close it was as if they were one being.

But she had to push back because she had so much more to say. “What you’re doing is amazing. TED Talks for artists. You could have a therapist talk about how to deal with unsympathetic or unsupportive parents.”

“Like Gareth.”

And like her. “Experts who can talk about ways to live on a small budget.” She gasped. “These lectures could be for every artist, not just the ones in your studios.”

He tightened his grip on her. “We need Dylan on this.” A hint of pain still clouded his eyes, but there was excitement too. Almost a frenzied look. “We need to ask what Dylan needs right now, after what happened to him. Did you see him downstairs?”

He almost dumped her off his lap as he leaped up in his enthusiasm. She savored his fervor as much as she savored his kisses, his touches, the feel of him inside her. “He was already working on a new piece.”

He held her shoulders, looked into her eyes, and whispered, “You did that for him. Now it’s my job to do that for everyone else. I need his help to do it.”

She was already backing away. “I’ll get him for you.”

She felt as if she’d witnessed an amazing metamorphosis—Clay coming to life with all his brilliant ideas. She dashed back with Dylan in minutes, her heart racing, her skin flushed with exertion, but also from Clay’s breath-stealing kisses and all the ideas spilling out of him.

Dylan threw himself onto the sofa, leaning back, resting one booted foot on his knee. “What?”

The young man wanted to sound tough, but she could see him still bubbling and roiling inside, despite the new piece he’d started after cleaning up his studio.

Instead of standing over him, Clay sat on the opposite end of the sofa, and Saskia took the armchair. “After what happened to you, Saskia has made me realize I need to provide counseling to help artists through that kind of thing. How to prepare before it even happens. I’d like you to help me see what’s needed.”

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