Page 61 of Frequency of Attraction

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The bell dinged overhead as Quinn entered the gallery. She’d been productive all week. What had been a nearly empty Georgian-era row home was now painted inside in soothing grays and bright whites and outfitted with furniture in every corner. Even the brick stoop had been decorated with towering pots of bright summer flowers.

Quinn had learned something over the past week. While she’d disconnected from the world, she became more connected to herself. She realized that as much as she loved Victory and OrbitAll, and Tate’s home-cooked meals, the villa in the desert hills was not her home. Boston, her brownstone, was home because she wanted it to be. She could change her life with just a change of mindset. After that realization, the venom in Vadim’s words hardly stung anymore.

The last step in making the brownstone her home? Art. She had fantastic taste in couture, in shoes and hotels, but art had remained outside her realm. She didn’t know what kind of art would complement the vibe there.

“How can I help you?”

Quinn smiled at the wispy woman who had materialized in front of her. The large glasses on her thin face gave her a blinking, insect-like quality. Chopsticks stuck out of the bun on top of her head. Her cropped sweater revealed a dragon tattoo across her belly.

“I have an entire house in need of art.”

“Tell me about the house.”

Quinn shrugged. “It’s a townhouse in Beacon Hill.”

The woman raised a thin eyebrow.

“I’m sure I’m not as fancy as my neighbors,” Quinn assured her. “Modern-ish furniture, neutral colors. It’s just me there. I don’t want stuffy. I don’t want expected. I just want pretty pictures that make me feel something.”

A smile grew on the woman’s ruby lips. “Graffiti.”

“Pardon?”

“We had a Banksy reproduction show recently, and I still have some prints left.”

“Banksy.” Quinn knew of the London graffiti artist, but she never would have pictured herself decorating in that style. She had been thinking more along the lines of abstract art with pops of color.

“I love the idea of an illegal art form in a place like a storied Beacon Hill row home. Old and new, complacency and discontent. Interested?”

“I’ll take a look.”

The tiny woman, shorter than Quinn even, bounced in her ballet flats as Quinn followed her past some canvas curtains and into the back of the gallery. A single bulb in the center of the room, activated by a pull string, sent light scattering into the space. The woman began picking through stacks of mounted prints arranged in rows on the raw wood floor. Quinn joined her. She was surprised by how strongly some of the pieces touched her. In them, she saw sensuality, whimsy, and despair all married together. She even spied a few little Mila would love. Not that it mattered. Any lingering hopes of Mila in her life had vanished the day of theAeroSpaceinterview.Stay away from me. No problem, buddy.

She pulled a few out of the stack to set aside, some serious, some cheeky. The art gallery woman did the same.

“These are perfect,” Quinn murmured.

“Aren’t they? I’m Edie, by the way. Tell me everything there is to know about you and we’ll get the rest of your place sorted, too.”

After two hours of lively discussion and lots of surfing on Edie’s sticker-covered laptop, Quinn had art for every room.

“I’ll get everything ordered and framed.” Edie’s voice was bright with delight. She already felt like a friend, and Quinn didn’t have many of those.

She left the gallery empty-handed but full in her heart. Her good mood couldn’t be attributed entirely to the fun afternoon with Edie, either. She’d heard good news out of San Diego the day before. Chen had showed up unannounced on Elle’s first night in her new house. He’d left China for her. He’d proposed and, of course, Elle had said yes. Wedding bells were ringing. She had never heard a more excited voice than Elle’s when she’d called to share.

How could she be sad over Vadim after that? Love unreturned was part of the human experience. Vadim had cracked her open and she did not regret it. She’d thought he and Mila would be who filled her home and heart, but if she found only herself there, that was okay, too. She’d landed in Boston hurt and confused, but she would not be leaving that way. Quinn knew what she wanted now. A home of her own that reflected herself first, her hopes second. Tate had been right. He’d been saying it since she’d moved in with him. Quinn had just needed a fucking vacation.

Nerves knotted her stomach as she stopped at the Russian bakery on her way out of town. She felt like an outsider in that little circle now. Thankfully, Mila was working. The older woman let out a shriek and came bounding around the counter of sumptuous treats to give Quinn a warm hug. She chuckled softly into Mila’s shoulder, awash with relief.

“Dorogaya, it’s so nice to see you. Are you two back in town? Vadim didn’t mention.”

Quinn shook her head. “It’s just me.” She hesitated, wondering if she should let Baba Mila know that there was no “you two” but decided against it. “I’m on my way to the airfield and just wanted to say hi.”

Mila smiled. “Let me make you a box for the flight.”

“I will never say no to that. Where’s little Mila?”

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