The driver and I made casual conversation on the way there, and he dropped me off in front of the gallery, a redbrick building that didn’t look like much from the outside but was absolutely gorgeous when you stepped inside.
The place was all white, the color coming from the displays around the large space, which she’d divided into three rooms. Gen was there waiting for me. She was gorgeous—tall and leggy, with the smoothest chestnut-colored skin, her hair natural and styled in a fauxhawk on top and cornrows on the sides.
“Lane Ryan,” she said with a big smile.
“Genevieve Barrows.”
I gave her a hug as best as I could with the two packages in my hands.
“Come to the back with me. You look great. That Georgia air has been good to you. You’re refreshed.”
“Thanks. It’s been incredible.”
She led me to her office. It had two white couches inside, a desk, and a few display easels. “I can’t wait to see these in person.” She took one from me and began to unpackage it while I did the other. Once we had them set up, I waited while Gen studied them, nerves digging deeper into my flesh with each passing second.
Gen was picky, but good. People respected her opinion. When she spoke, they listened, and while she’d always been a fan of my work, and had thought these two pieces were pretty in the photos I’d sent, seeing them in real life was different. She wasn’t one to blow smoke up anyone’s ass, and if she hated them, if she changed her mind, she would tell me.
“These are even more emotive than your usual work. Your talent shines through, and the detail is stunning, Lane, but that’s not what makes them so special. I can feel the emotion in these. It flows from the canvas straight into my chest. Look at his hand here.” She pointed. “The way he’s clutching the other man. He’s afraid to let go, afraid to lose what he wants so very badly, but if I stand back and look at it from a different angle, it’s almost like his hand isn’t his own but part of the other man.”
“I…” …didn’t know what to say. That was high praise coming from anyone, but even more so from Genevieve.
She turned, reached out and touched my chest, her hand right over my heart. “Those paintings come from right here. All your work does, but these, they’re a part of you, Lane. They’re vulnerable, and you don’t usually paint with that level of vulnerability.”
No, no I didn’t. “They’re different, yes.”
“Are you sure you’re okay with displaying them tomorrow?”
“Yeah. I don’t want to keep them locked away. Love shouldn’t be hidden, and while they’re personal to me, my hope is that when someone else sees them, they’ll be personal to them too.”
She nodded and dropped her hand. “Someone has tamed Lane Ryan, have they? You searched hard enough before.”
I chuckled. “Was it that obvious?”
“What? That you were looking for a love you couldn’t find, or that you have it now? The answer is yes to both.”
I laughed again. I adored Genevieve. “His name is Isaac. He’s in the city with me. I’m bringing him as my plus-one tomorrow night.”
“I thought you were with family in Georgia?”
“I was,” I answered, and left it there. If she somehow found out Isaac was my stepbrother, then she did. I would deal with it no matter what, because just like those paintings, I refused to hide my love for Isaac.
“I can’t wait to meet him, my friend. I’m happy for you. Love looks good on you.”
I smiled. “Love feels good on me too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Isaac
We wore matching black tuxes with bow ties. Genevieve, whom I’d yet to meet, apparently loved Lane and sent a car to pick us up at his apartment. His hair was down, in loose curls that sat on his shoulders. As always, some of them had a mind of their own, but he’d put some kind of product in it so it wasn’t as wild as it sometimes was.
He’d been ecstatic when he’d come home from her gallery the day before. I’d felt the energy rolling off him, enjoyed the fullness of Lane’s happiness in my chest, while he went on and on about what Genevieve had said about his paintings.
She wanted to plan a show when the series was complete. She thought it was his best work. Though I’d teased him about taking partial credit for it, as I was his muse, I knew it was all Lane.
Genevieve’s building was beautiful—white-painted brick with large pillars around stairs leading to the entrance.
The doorman checked our names on his list, and we took the elevator up.
We were in the hallway, heading for her door, when Lane reached over and interlaced his fingers with mine.
“You have a crush on me, don’t you, Lane?”