Twisted Love (Twisted #1)(92)

Alex’s mouth tilted up. “I have enough in stocks, investments, and savings to last me the rest of my life. I worked because I wanted to. But now, I want to do something else.”

I swallowed, my pulse thundering. “What’s that?”

“Win you back. No matter how long it takes.”





43





Ava





The fellowship ended with a grand exhibition attended by the movers and shakers of London’s art world. The exhibition took place in Shoreditch, and every fellow had their own section in the pop-up gallery.

It was exhilarating, nerve-wracking, and utterly surreal.

I stared at my little slice of heaven and the people passing through it, dressed to the nines and examining each piece with what I hoped were admiring eyes.

I’d grown by leaps and bounds as a photographer over the past year, and while I still had a lot to learn, I was damn proud of my work. I specialized in travel portraits like Diane Lange, but I put my personal spin on it. As much as I admired her, I didn’t want to be her; I wanted to be my own person, with my own vision and creative ideas.

I took most of my shots in London, but the good thing about Europe was how easy it was to travel to other countries. On the weekends, I took the Eurostar to Paris or day trips to the Cotswolds. I even booked short flights to neighboring countries like Ireland and the Netherlands and didn’t freak out on the plane.

My favorite piece was a portrait of two old men playing chess at a park in Paris. One had his head tossed back in laughter with a cigarette in hand while the other examined the board with a furrowed brow. The emotions from both jumped out from the photo, and I’d never been prouder.

“How do you feel?” Diane came up beside me. Her pale blonde hair brushed her shoulders, and her black-rimmed glasses matched her black jacket and pants combo. She’d been the best mentor I could ask for during the fellowship, and now I considered her both a friend and role model.

Me, friends with Diane Lange.

Surreal.

“I feel…everything,” I admitted. “Warning though, I might also throw up.”

She threw her head back and laughed, not unlike the man in the photo. That was one of my favorite things about Diane. Whether it was joy, sadness, or anger, she expressed her emotions fully and without reserve. She poured herself into the world with the confidence of someone who refused to hold herself back to make others comfortable, and she shone all the brighter for it.

“That’s normal,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “I actually did throw up during my first exhibition. Puked all over a server and a guest who happened to be one of Paris’s premier art collectors. I was mortified, but he was a good sport about it. Ended up buying two of my pieces that night.”

I chewed on my bottom lip. That was another thing. All the fellows’ photos were up for sale tonight. My cohort had turned it into a competition to see who could sell the most and therefore boast they were “the best,” but I would be happy if I sold one.

Knowing that someone, anyone, liked my work enough to pay for it sent a swarm of happy jitters through my stomach.

“I hope I’ll have as good a night,” I said, because I hadn’t sold anything yet.

The twinkle in Diane’s eyes intensified. “You already have. Better, in fact.”

I tilted my head in confusion.

“Someone bought all your pieces. Every single one.”

I almost choked on my champagne. “Wh-what?” The exhibition started an hour ago. How was that possible?

“Seems like you have an admirer.” She winked. “Don’t look so surprised. Your work is good. Really good.”

I didn’t care how good my work was; I was an unknown name. A newbie. Newbies don’t sell out of their entire collection that fast unless…

My heart thumped—in warning or excitement, I wasn’t sure.

I glanced frantically around the gallery, searching for thick brown hair and cool green eyes.

Nothing.

But he was here. He was my anonymous buyer. I felt it in my gut.

Alex and I had developed a new…well, I wasn’t sure if I could call it a friendship, but it was a step up from whatever we had when he arrived in London a year ago. He still waited for me in front of my flat every morning and walked me home after my workshops every afternoon. Sometimes we talked, sometimes we didn’t. He helped me practice my self-defense moves, assembled my new dining table after my old one broke, and served as a de facto assistant on some of my photoshoots. It had taken a long time before we reached that point, but we’d gotten there.

He was trying. More than trying. And while I’d regained a modicum of trust in him, something held me back from fully forgiving him. I could see how much it hurt him every time I pushed him away, but the wounds from his and Michael’s betrayals—while they were healing—ran deep, and I was still learning to trust myself, much less other people.

Josh, who’d graduated med school last month, had visited a few times, and I made Alex stay out of sight while he was in town. Josh was still furious with Alex, and I didn’t need them getting into a fistfight in the middle of London. Jules, Bridget, and Stella had visited too. I hadn’t told them about Alex, but I had a hunch Bridget knew something was up—she’d kept looking at me with a knowing glint in her eyes.