Page 92 of Art of Love
God in heaven...
This was the cottage in England he’d teased me about when I’d panicked about being pregnant.
I smiled ear to ear like an idiot and started laughing.
“Good picture?” John asked.
“The best.” I showed it to him. “Thank you for everything, John.”
“You’re most welcome, Jia. You’re not accepting, are you?”
I shook my head. It didn’t feel right. I appreciated Hunter’s sacrifice, but I’d always feel like I took something that should have been his.
“Okay. I’m leaving the position open until we set off to Europe. So, you guys have until mid-January to decide which of you will take the position.”
That was nice of him.
I gave him a hug and smiled up at him. “Thank you.”
“Don’t be a stranger. Not like last time.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” I promised, and as I left, I marveled at the way I felt.
This was so different to the day I’d thought I was going to have. It also felt like a new beginning was on the horizon.
***
Ifound Hunter in thebasement, painting.
I must have taken two steps inside before I realized that every single painting in here was of me.
I held the one he gave me to my chest and looked around me in complete awe.
There were a about ten pictures, all of me in different poses. My gaze travelled across to where Hunter was standing. He hadn’t seen me yet, but I was sure he would have heard me. The painting he was working on was of me with wings on my back like an angel. I was naked like the goddess Venus. Unlike her, my picture showed off my breasts, and there was a shell over my privates.
I cleared my throat, and the sexy devil turned to face me. He had pink and green paint staining the ends of his hair and the paintbrush in his mouth. The black tank top he wore clung to his muscles, making him look all the more alluring.
He set the brush down and offered me a tentative smile.
“Congratulations.” He beamed, holding his palms out.
“Wanker,” I snapped.
“Why, love, why am I a wanker?”
“Clearly, you’re taking the piss out of me because you bloody well know what I’m talking about.”
He laughed at my poor attempt to use his British slang.
“It suits you. Woman of my own heart.”
“Hunter Kane, what did you do? You crazy English man. What did you do?”
“I fell in love. I love you, Jia.”
That was the very best thing I could have heard in my life.
“I love you too,” I told him. “And I love my painting.”
