Neat (Becker Brothers, #2)(61)
Chris stood by my side with each person I greeted, smiling and taking over the conversation when I could no longer hold it. Of course, not many people stood to talk to him for very long. He was one of only a handful of openly gay people in our town, and let’s just say that the first wave of people in attendance were very old-fashioned folks.
I thought I was living in my own personal hell, in a nightmare I wouldn’t be able to escape for hours. I couldn’t believe the grand opening of a studio I’d dreamed of for so long had turned into a social function for my fucking parents.
But then, slowly, people who had no ties to my family other than the fact that they lived in Stratford began to arrive. Families wandered in, with kids bright eyed and excited to play with the paint and the ceramic knick-knacks I’d laid out for anyone to bring to life with color and heat. I found myself flitting around the room, talking to young high school students who were interested in art but unsure of where to start, chatting with parents about after-school opportunities and summer programs, visiting with the secretary of the nursing home in town about field-trip opportunities for senior citizens. I was showing children how to paint, showing adults how to mold a pottery vase with their hands, showing a group of young adults pretending they were too cool to be there a brochure on a midnight photography tour where they could learn how to shoot the stars in the sky with long exposure.
So, the second thing I felt was that same pride my parents had. I felt joy, and accomplishment, and like I might actually be able to make a difference, to make art possible — even if it was just in the small town of Stratford, Tennessee. I watched so many eyes light up when I showed them something new, when they made the first stroke of color with their brush, when they lit up with the possibility that they could create something beautiful.
An hour ticked by, and then another, with people coming and going, and me floating around the room to do my best to talk to every single person who stopped in.
The third thing I felt was longing for the one person who had yet to show.
Logan assured me last night when I was mid-flee from his place that he would be here. He said he wouldn’t miss it. Still, I didn’t know why I was surprised that he hadn’t come — especially after how I’d acted, how things had been at work. Why would he come? Why would he show up for me when I had run out on him?
I tried to ignore that hollowness in my stomach, filling it with champagne and what hors d’oeuvres I could keep down, and keeping busy with my guests. I convinced myself it was okay that he wasn’t there, that I understood, that I didn’t blame him and I didn’t have a right to be a precious little baby about it.
But when Chris pulled me away from a family I was working on painting rocks with — rocks that I hoped would be little surprise Easter eggs throughout our town — and told me a special guest had just arrived, the way my heart stopped called me out on my bullshit lies.
Chris grinned at my dumbfounded expression, nodding to the door behind me before he sipped his champagne and twirled away to make himself busy. I closed my eyes, took a breath, and slowly — very slowly — turned around.
Logan was just inside the door, searching the room, with that damn wrinkle between his brows on full display. He shifted uncomfortably, holding a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a small white box in the other. His chestnut hair, which was normally ruffled and hidden under a baseball cap, was parted to one side, gelled, every strand in its place. He’d shaved, giving his scruff a clean line that somehow made his jaw and neck even sexier than before. He wore a light-blue button up, cuffed at the elbows, the top two buttons left unfastened. It was covered by a russet vest, one that showed off his broad shoulders and chest, accenting the narrow waist that drew my eyes down to his dark jeans. I smiled when I noted the rugged leather boots under those jeans — boots that matched his vest. He was so devastatingly handsome, my throat tightened, a knot forming that I couldn’t swallow past.
His eyes were a fierce honey gold, even from across the room under the hanging string lights, and when they stopped on me, and a smirk crept up on the left side of his face, that damn dimple popping under his cheek — I knew he’d found what he’d been searching for.
My heart slowed as he walked toward me, as did the blood in my veins, and the breath filling my lungs. The people around me seemed to morph and fade until it was quiet altogether, until only the soft jazz music the band was playing and his footsteps walking toward me existed. He stopped with just a foot between us, and his eyes crawled over me, searing every inch, before he found my gaze once more.
“Hi.”
I let out a long laugh of a breath. “Hi.”
“You look…”
“Like a bride from the nineties?”
“Took the words right out of my mouth.” Logan shook his head, brows folding together as he tugged on a piece of lace dangling from one of my wrists. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. You’re beautiful no matter what you wear. But… you just… you don’t look like you.”
“What does me look like?”
His eyes danced back up to mine, an uneasy smile finding his lips. “Effortlessly gorgeous in a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and off-white sneakers. Hair down.” His eyes fell to my lips. “Lips painted my new favorite color of dusty rose.” When his eyes met mine again, I found I could barely breathe, and when he leaned in a little closer, I couldn’t breathe at all. “Although, I prefer you in just my t-shirt and a messy ponytail.”