Page 28 of Meeting Mr. Adorkable
“I’d love to. It’s just that you look exhausted — and haven’t you had enough of my company for one day?”
Arlo smiled, warm and bright, chasing away the clouds that had scudded across his eyes.
“It’s either you or I spend the evening trying to teach Peanut new tricks he refuses to learn. It’s not really much of a choice.”
Lucian pulled himself up to his full, not very tall height. “I accept your invitation, Mr. McDonald, if only to spare poor Peanut from your attentions,” his voice clipped and clear, putting on the posh in every word, syllable, letter. “I’m doing this for your dog. You do understand that?”
“I’ve still got ice cream.”
Lucian grinned. “You’re on.”
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
It was a replay of just days ago, but as Arlo gathered together an ice cold bottle of lemonade and some chips and dips to take out to the porch, he knew something had shifted. It’d been Tony.
The only people in Collier’s Creek who knew, for sure, that Tony even existed were Hank and Francine and that was how he wanted to keep it — although, he knew some speculated and came to their own wild and outlandish conclusions about why he’d left the bright lights of the city behind him. Yet, he’d told Lucian, spilling out not only the bare bones, but some of the flesh too. He didn’t understand why, didn’t want to analyze, but he was glad he had.
Placing everything on a tray, he took it outside. Lucian wasn’t where he’d left him, petting Peanut, who now lounged on the flagstones.
“Luc…” The rest of the name faded on his lips as he turned and looked into the interior of the house, a kaleidoscope of soft shadow and fading light.
At the far end of the long room, Lucian stared up at a painting hung on the wall. He was immobile, his head hanging back, his dark, heavy hair falling behind him. As though feeling Arlo’s scrutiny, Lucian turned, a shaft of early evening sunlight illuminating his face.
“The painting, it’s stunning. It’s like it’s alive. How did I not see this when I last came here?”
“Because it wasn’t there. I only hung it this morning.” Arlo came and stood next to Lucian, stuffing his hands into the side pockets of his jeans. His artwork had always been a private passion, reflecting his inner self, far too revealing to let others’ gaze fall on it for too long.
Lucian tilted his head. “You’re the artist, aren’t you?”
Arlo nodded, not meeting Lucian’s gaze as unaccustomed shyness stole over him.
“You must have trained, because this isn’t the work of an amateur.”
“That’s exactly what it is. It’s a hobby and has been for years, but that’s all it’s ever been.” His shoulders tensed as memories surfaced. Disinterest, worse than any criticism could ever have been, forcing him without a word to take down the canvases and stash them away, as though they’d never been.
“This is accomplished work. Have you ever considered showing them to a gallery?”
Arlo snorted so loud he coughed. “No. Like I said, it’s just a hobby.” Who’d be interested in his dabblings? Although, he had stopped by the gallery that had opened in town, a few months back, ostensibly to view the ever-changing display as he’d tried to work up his courage to walk through the door. Instead, all he’d done was talk himself out of it, convincing himself he’d be met with nothing more than disinterest… Candid criticism he could take, or probably, but disinterest was emotional and creative acid.
Lucian stared at him, his face solemn, his large eyes unwavering, and the words Arlo hadn’t meant to say tumbled from him.
“Once, I showed my work to somebody who was in the art world. Their reaction was lukewarm, and that’s being generous. But like I say, I’m just an amateur.” A friend of Tony’s, but no friend of his. Arlo’s shoulders hunched up another notch, and he pushed his hands further into his pockets. Even so long after, the burn of humiliation was still there. Derivative… flat… one dimensional… The punches hadn’t been pulled.
“Well, that’s a load of old bollocks. Whoever this person was, they’d have been better suited to flipping burgers or delivering pizza. This,” Lucian stabbed a finger at the painting, “is exceptional work.” Lucian glared at him, his whole body seeming to shake with indignation.
Arlo jolted at the passion in Lucian’s words, but it was enough for his shoulders to relax, and he pulled his hands from his pockets, glad to have somebody in his corner, even if Lucian was only being polite.
“At best, I’m a talented amateur.” But didn’t Lucian know about color and composition? Wasn’t he an artist in his own right? “So how come you know about painting? Did they teach you that at flower school?”
Lucian raised a brow as he tilted his chin upwards. “Flower school? I hold advanced diplomas in Floristry and Event Styling, if you don’t mind. But no, I didn’t take art classes.” His face dissolved into a smile. “I learned an awful lot from our art historian. At home.”
“Who the hell employs an art historian?”
Lucian’s lips quirked. “We do, but only on a part time basis because full time would be showing off.” His words were bright and breezy, as though employing an art historian in any capacity was as commonplace as a person announcing they employed somebody to take care of the yard, or the housework.
Arlo laughed and shook his head.
“If you’ve any more, I’d love to see them.”
