She stared at the dark gaze looking back at her and felt her lungs seize. In the last year, she'd grown as an artist. She knew she had, but this…this was proof. This was visceral. Everett stared back at her, looking as though he read her mind and relished the ability to do so.
And even though she didn't like to paint anything she wasn't willing to sell, she knew this one would stay with her forever. She would keep it long after Everett left her behind. A memory of their time together she could hold on to when loneliness overtook her.
Izzy glanced at the clock on her stove and yawned again. Five thirty-four. She'd been at it ever since Everett had dropped her off a little after eleven.
Was it too much to hope he'd have business to attend to this morning? Wouldn't show up at her door at some unholy hour wanting to sightsee?
She lowered her arms and crossed to the couch, grabbing a throw from the chair as she passed by before dropping onto the velvet surface, uncaring of the paint smudges she undoubtedly carried. Practically everything in her apartment was paint-smudged, much to her mother's horror.
Izzy rolled to her side and curled around a pillow, drowsily blinking at the canvas across the room.
It needed a title.
But so much went into choosing a name.
And how could she name something when she had no idea what—who—it was?