Page 61 of Mine to Worship

His palm finds my cheek and I lean into it. “Are you sure?”

“I am not, but that’s life. Try to relax, for me.”

“Promise me you’ll take care, and if anything happens, call me.”

“I will. I promise. Go hang out with the guys.”

I push him toward them, and he eyes me over his shoulder.

“So eager to get rid of me?”

“Why would I get rid of you?” I ask jokingly. Deep inside, I know the answer; that would never happen.

He stops, strides back to me, and cradles my face. Butterflies shoot up from the cocoon of my stomach. Every hard inch of his face taut with seriousness.

“Not in this lifetime, angel.”

I smile against his touch and our lips meet.

“Go, before I change my mind.”

“You had to ruin it,” I say, and he chuckles before walking back to his brother and his friends.

“He should try to relax. He’s constantly on alert,” Aubrey says. I steal a glance at him and find his eyes on me.

“I know.”

“What about sex?”

“Tried that. It just takes his mind off it for a while,” I admit, and they burst into laughter.

On the sidewalk, we bicker about where to go.

“Hey, I am the pregnant lady. I should get special treatment.”

“Spa?” Tara says.

“Boring,” Aubrey mutters, before suggesting we go shopping

“No, there is this gallery I haven’t been to yet,” I say.

We end up in a cab and doing all three: getting a massage and a facial, shopping, and going to the art gallery.

In front of an intricate piece, in which the colors change smoothly over the canvas, Aubrey says, and not so silently, “You’re better.”

I snort. “You’re biased.”

“Am not. It’s true. I mean, what did they call you? ‘Art child prodigy’, the ‘face of millennial abstractionism art’.”

“This guy is talented, his layering technique is incredible. See how the colors come to life?” I insist.

“I thought I recognized you,” a deep male voice says, and we turn around.

My hand flies to my mouth. Right in front of me is a gallerist god. A true legend even though he’s still young. A prodigy himself, if the rumors are true and there are many when it comes to him. Apparently, from a young age he could detect who would make it, whose art would separate from the masses. The artists he takes in his galleries become world-famous. He can make or break artists with his opinions. Skyrocketing someone’s success or shoving them into a cave of anonymity, it would be almost impossible to crawl out. He gave me the title then.

“You’re, you’re…” I stammer and he extends his hand.

“Andre Garcia.”

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