Page 24 of Take This Heart
Something flickers in those stormy eyes. “I wanted to see you shine.”
My chest constricts and then a million butterflies take flight.
We’re interrupted by a wave of people who want to talk about the artwork and get their picture taken with me. Some just want to talk about how much they know about art, but that comes with the territory. I meet a lot of great people who say such nice things about my work—it feels surreal to know other people care this much about something I created. My face aches from smiling.
And then it’s just a few lingering people. My eyes widen when Milo walks up to me.
“You’re still here,” I whisper.
He closes the few inches between us, handing me a stunning bouquet of roses, peonies, and anemones.
I’m speechless as I take the flowers from him.
“You terrify me, Goldie Whitman,” he whispers. “Good night.”
He walks away and I’m dizzy as I watch him go.
“You terrify me too,” I whisper.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHUT DOWN
MILO
I can’t get her out of my head.
Goldie Whitman.
Her artwork was vivid and aching and alive. Like her. Standing in front of her pieces, she looked like she was stitched into every canvas. It was as if I could see her pulse beneath the paint.
I’ve also thought about Everett a lot. I’m still in shock that he’s sick…and that my uncle wants the same property. I shouldn’t be surprised. Both are successful businessmen, and it’s not like we’re as large as New York or Chicago; our pool of business moguls is a lot smaller. And Bruce is specifically relentless about Everett. This will eventually bite me in the ass.
I’ve put off seeing Bruce, but I can’t any longer.
I rake a hand through my hair and stalk across my penthouse, the skyline of the Twin Cities standing proudly beyondthe windows. I like my place. It’s sleek and minimal, but lately, it feels hollow.
I grab my jacket and head to Bruce’s office.
Once I’m inside his building, I slide my cell into my pocket. The elevator dings, and I step into the vast atrium of my uncle’s building, the polished floor echoing my footsteps. Anna, the receptionist, a young brunette like all of Bruce’s receptionists have been, lights up when she sees me, her red fingernails pausing their clacking across the keyboard.
“Is Bruce free?” I ask, casting a glance at the enormous clock on the wall.
“He always has time for you,” Anna says, her smile wide. She picks up the phone and lets Bruce know I’m here. “You can head on back.”
“Thanks, Anna.”
Bruce’s office is at the end of a long corridor, the carpet thick, muffling my resolve with each step. I knock lightly and push open the door.
“Hello, Milo.” He rises from behind his desk and rounds it to greet me, his handshake firm. We’re not one of those families who hugs or exchanges long pleasantries. Bruce is tall and imposing, his square jaw showing a hint of stubble, his hair graying and cut short. He’s wearing a three-piece suit, a timeless cut that reeks of money and power. The same could be said for me. I can appreciate a nice suit and am wearing one myself, albeit somewhat more casual. I’ll save the three-piece suits for winter.
“What brings you here this afternoon?” he asks, motioning for me to sit. “Can I get you a Scotch?”
It’s always Scotch with him. He pours a glass, lifting it, and I shake my head.
“No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” He grins and brings his glass over to his desk, sitting across from me.
