“Listen, Dani. I’m not saying this because you’re my daughter and my only child, but you’re the greatest artist in the world. Picasso, who? Van Gogh, who? And nobody better disagree with me on that.”

He looks so ready to fight with anyone that I laugh. “Stop it, Dad.”

“I’ll fight them. The entire Sweetheart Falls will.”

My earlier nervousness is gone and replaced by euphoria. I did it. I really did it.

Two years after moving back, I came to the city again, not to try my luck or be another corporate slave. I’m here for my first exhibit.

I’m so happy I don’t know whether to squeal or giggle. This all feels unreal, like I’m watching this happen to someone else.

The exhibit is at a small gallery and probably someplace the world’s most well-known art critics don’t even know about, but I don’t care. This was my lifelong dream, and now it’s coming true.

Matthew was right. He predicted I’d get my mojo back, and I did. I started small—painting his ceramic plates and mugs. Then, I did murals for the buildings he owned. When I was confident enough, I worked on canvas.

I painted, drew, and sketched whenever and wherever I wanted. I couldn’t stop. The inspiration just kept flowing. It’s like I was making up for the time I lost working for a company that didn’t give a damn about me.

And this collection?

I made them on our cabin terrace. The paintings aren’t exactly earth-shattering, but they hold a special place in my heart. Dad doing his crossword puzzle in the kitchen, the weekend thunderstorm as I remember it, Goldie playing in the mud.

And my favorite?

The one with Matthew and Goldie playing in the river. The afternoon sun made the ripples in the shallow water shimmer like liquid gold. Matthew wading in the river, his jeans rolled up to his knees, and laughing as Goldie splashed water everywhere.

None of these artworks is for sale. I came here to showcase my work and announce that I’m ready to accept commissions. That’s it. Potential customers get to see my portfolio and style.

“Man, these paintings are something else. I wonder who the artist is and if she doesn’t mind giving me her number.” I jump and almost spill the champagne as Matt whispers in my ear and wraps his arms around my waist from behind.

I melt into him. “How do you know the artist is a she?”

“I just feel it.”

“Then she’s probably taken.”

“Hope the bastard knows how lucky he is.”

I spin in his arms and kiss him. He’s wearing a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and black dress pants. I’ve never seen him like this, and it robs me of breath.

God, he’s so handsome, and he’s mine.

When everyone finally leaves, and only Matt and I are left, he sets his phone on the table, and music fills the small space.

“May I have this dance?” His eyes twinkle with a playful light.

“Matt, I haven’t danced since prom!”

“Neither have I.”

His arms encircle my waist, and I rest my head on his shoulder, feeling his steady heartbeat under my palm. We sway together, and the world from beyond the gallery disappears.

“Dani?”

I pull back just enough to see him stare at me intently. “Yes, Matt?”

“There’s a decade I’ll never get back. A decade of not being by your side because I was a selfish prick who only thought of what he wanted.”

“Matt, no.”