He laughed. “True. But you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me, so you’re stuck with me. Got it?”
Hot tears prickled her eyes. “Oh, Zach.”
He offered her his elbow, his smile warm. “C’mon, let’s blow these fuck—I mean, let’s blow these hoity-toity snobs out of the water. Show them what class and talent Platinum Joe’s kids have.”
“You are the best brother a girl could have, Zachary Francis.” She stole a quick kiss on his cheek before he could stop her. “I thought I didn’t need my family. I thought I was good walking away from it. But I am so grateful you came into my life. Thank you.”
His cheek flooded red and he ducked his head, his smile stretching wider. “Geez, sis. Way to get all soppy.”
She laughed. Could it sound any more nervous? “Let’s go. I guess.”
They walked into the gallery together, her hand wrapped around his elbow.
The epitome of poise and control and calm. That’s what she was. Poise and control and—
She glimpsed the artworks hanging on the walls through the crowds of people mingling in front of each one and her knees trembled.
“Oh, wow.”
“Whoa,” Zach muttered at her side.
Almost every work she’d painted for Mason Xavier hung on the walls. Amongst them were various paintings, drawings, and etchings she’d completed during her art school days—artwork she’d sold at various student exhibitions to pay for supplies, food, and rent.
Still lifes, expressionistic landscapes, life-drawing sketches, abstracts, self-portraits… Artwork that lay her soul bare, her journey… It was all there.
A hot lump filled her throat, and she gripped Zach’s elbow tighter.
“You are one talented artist, girl,” a familiar voice said on her right.
She blinked, swinging her head to find Carrie smiling at her. “You didn’t say anything about being here tonight.”
Carrie smirked. “And spoil the surprise? Who do you think helped James Dyson curate this? Finding some of your old art school work wasn’t easy, y’know.”
Sienna blinked again.
Carrie preened. “You can thank me later.”
“I can?”
“Hell, yeah. Your timing is impeccable, by the way. The exhibition is about to officially open. It’s probably better the artist is here for when that happens.”
The lump in her throat grew thicker. “I think I want to strangle you.”
Carrie chuckled. “No, you don’t. What you want to do is look at that man over there.”
Head roaring, chest tight, Sienna followed the direction of Carrie’s finger.
Oh God.
James stood a few meters away, watching her. He looked incredible, his suit the darkest of grays, his shirt black and opened at the neck. He was wearing his emerald-green Converse Chucks, and on his jaw was stubble she ached to trace her fingertips over.
People stood around him, talking to him.
He wasn’t listening. Instead, he met her gaze, a small—almost uncertain—smile tugging at the edges of his lips.
Slipping her hand free of Zach’s elbow, every molecule in her body thrumming, she began to walk toward him.
She stopped when he shook his head.
Smile growing wider, he turned and crossed to a microphone stand situated in front of the largest painting in the exhibition space—a canvas of a lone woman standing with her back to the viewer, her head turned to the side, her eyelids half closed, her lips telling a secretive story in a shy smile.
The painting had been Mason Xavier’s strangest request—a self-portrait of Sienna. It had torn her apart to send it on to her benefactor.
And now here it was. With hundreds of people looking at it. Seeing it.
Seeing her.
And she could do nothing but look at James.
James, who now tapped the mic.
The gallery fell silent.
Sienna’s heart hammered in her ears like cannon fire.
“Thank you for coming, everyone,” he said, his deep, smooth voice projected around the exhibition space.
Sienna pressed her palms to her stomach. Her body’s reaction scared her. Exhilarated her.
Oh God.
She stared at him, equally scared to blink. What if he wasn’t there when she opened her eyes again? What if this was all a—