Page 21 of The Ex-cavenger Hunt

Lily nods, her expression thoughtful. “And look what they created. It’s inspiring, isn’t it?”

“It is,” I agree, but as I look at her, I know that the true inspiration is standing right beside me.

“Look at this one,” Lily points to a canvas awash with bold strokes of cerulean and emerald, her finger tracing the air where the colors meet. Her eyes sparkle with wonder, and I can’t help but be drawn in by her excitement. “It’s like the ocean met the sky right there on the canvas.”

I lean closer, my shoulder brushing against hers, and I feel a spark at the contact. “Or maybe they’ve always been secret lovers,” I say, my voice low and intimate, “and this is their clandestine meeting place.”

“You’re such a charmer, even to the paintings.”

“Only the best for my fellow adventurer.” I wink at her, and I’m rewarded with a faint blush that colors her cheeks.

“Come on, there’s more to see,” Lily says, her vivacity infectious as she pulls me further into the gallery. We weave through the crowd, stopping to admire each piece, our heads bent together as we discuss the intricacies of the artwork. Lily’s passion is palpable, and I find myself getting lost in her words, in the way her face lights up when she talks about the brushstrokes and the color palettes.

“Can you believe the texture on this one?” A woman beside me points to a canvas that looks like a thunderstorm made love to a rainbow. Her voice pulls me out of my Lily-induced trance, and I blink, trying to focus on the painting in front of me.

“Absolutely,” I agree, because what else is there to say? I don’t understand it, but I can appreciate it—the passion, the effort. Isn’t that what business is all about too? Pouring everything into something and hoping it resonates with someone else?

The woman turns to me, her eyes gleaming with curiosity, or maybe it’s just the gallery lights. “Are you familiar with the artist?” she asks, her head tilted slightly to the side.

I feel a moment of panic, but I quickly mask it with a confident smile. “Ah, somewhat,” I hedge, my tone casual. “I’ve heard great things.” It’s not a total lie. Lily’s been buzzing about James’s work for a couple of days.

“His use of color is quite revolutionary,” she continues, and I nod as if I’ve got any clue what makes one color choice more revolutionary than another.

“Revolutionary is the word,” I say with a confidence that feels more at home in a pitch meeting than an art gallery. “Changes the whole landscape of modern art.” I add a thoughtful stroke to my chin, hoping it makes me look insightful. I mean, that’s what I read when I was searching for this dude, so it must be true, right?

“Speaking of James . . .” My sentence trails off as I spot Lily edging closer to a man standing alone, his attention fixed on one of the more striking pieces in the gallery. Her stride is hesitant yet determined, like she’s about to face her greatest challenge head-on. That must be him—the reason we’re here.

I feel a twinge of something in my chest, a mixture of pride and apprehension. Lily’s been dreaming of this moment for so long, and I want it to be everything she’s hoped for. But a part of me also wonders what it means for us, for this journey we’ve embarked on together.

“Excuse me,” I murmur, slipping away from the woman beside me. My eyes never leave Lily as I make my way through the crowd, drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

“Eth, that’s him. That’s James,” Lily whispers as I approach, her voice quivering with excitement. Her eyes are wide, her cheeks flushed, and I can practically feel the nervous energy radiating off her.

I place a hand on her shoulder, feeling the tension there. “Go talk to him, Lily,” I encourage, giving her a gentle squeeze. “It’s now or never.”

She takes in a deep breath, steeling herself, and I watch as she transforms before my eyes. Gone is the nervous fan girl, replaced by a confident, passionate woman ready to seize her moment.

“Hi, I’m Lily Harper,” she begins, extending a hand that trembles ever so slightly. “I’ve been following your work for years.”

James turns, and even from where I stand, I can see the warmth in his smile. There’s something about the way he regards her, like she’s not just another fan, but a woman with a unique perspective, a kindred spirit in the world of art.

“Your use of color is incredible,” Lily says, gesturing to the painting—a whirlwind of emotion on canvas. “It’s like you’re not just seeing the world, but feeling it, too.”

“Thank you,” James says, his voice deep and thoughtful. “Art, for me, is about translating those intangible emotions into something visual, something palpable.”

Lily nods, her eyes tracing the contours of the painting before them. The colors seem to dance in response to her gaze, and I wonder if maybe she can actually feel the textures and shapes like he does. It’s like they’re speaking a language all their own, one that I can only hope to understand.

“I’ve always been a bit envious of that ability,” she confesses, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her voice is soft, vulnerable, and I feel a sudden urge to wrap her in my arms, to protect her from the uncertainty that comes with baring your soul.

“Ah, but who says there isn’t fear?” James counters gently, leaning closer. His tone is soft, inviting confidence. “When you lose it, the fear, you lose your inspiration and reason to continue. It’s a leap of faith.”

“Leaps of faith aren’t really my strong suit,” Lily admits, her gaze dropping to the floor. Her shoulders slump slightly, and I can see the self-doubt creeping in, threatening to overshadow the confidence she’d found just moments ago.

James tilts his head, studying her with a gentle, understanding smile. “Maybe not yet,” he replies, his encouragement as vibrant as the hues surrounding them. “But every artist has their own voice, their own vision. Yours is just waiting for the right moment to soar.”

I watch Lily absorb his words, her shoulders relaxing, her smile genuine and no longer tinged with uncertainty. It’s like witnessing a flower unfurl its petals to the sun—tentative at first, but growing bolder with each passing second. The transformation is breathtaking, and I feel a swell of pride in my chest.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to keep doing rounds,” James says, his voice apologetic as he glances around the crowded gallery. He places a gentle hand on Lily’s shoulder. “But please, keep in touch. I’d love to see more of your work.”

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