Page 60 of Hard to Break

Dear Nova and Brooke,

We enjoyed meeting you in person and appreciated you sending a draft partnership agreement. Please find it attached with minor revisions. We look forward to hosting you this April and exposing your work to our community.

Sincerely,

The Coastal Gallery Team

“Six. No, seven.”I count off the pieces for the show.

“What’s wrong?” Nova asks.

“This piece.” I hold up a photo on my phone. “You were going to send it to Coastal for the show.”

After getting the email yesterday, we did a happy dance and celebrated before filling out the paperwork.

They insisted on a mix of old and new pieces, including a couple of specific floral paintings Nova finished last year. So, we confirmed and Nova added in the list of pieces she would send the gallery, then signed.

Today, we’re organizing the art, working off that list.

We go through cartons, and I open the containers one after the other.

“Well, shit.” Nova looks around the exposed art, dissatisfied.

“Did you send it to New York for another exhibition?” I ask her.

“Maybe? That piece was the one Coastal was most excited about.” She chews her lip.

I’m unwilling to let anything bring us down after we got the agreement signed. It was a huge win. Anything else is fixable.

“We’ll be honest,” I suggest. “Tell him we planned on having it available but it’s not.”

“You don’t think he’ll hate it? It is in the contract we sent back,” she reminds me.

“No way. He loves your work. We’ll send him photos of a three new pieces and he can take his pick,” I suggest. “Your latest paintings are amazing.”

“I appreciate you saying that. Not all the reactions have been positive.”

Her gaze drops to her phone on the table, and I know what she’s thinking.

Her posts featuring new art have less engagement, and half the comments on them are asking when she’ll make more dancers or floral art.

“Ignore the comments. I will respond for you,” I say.

Nova blows out a breath. “You’re the best. Really.”

A notification on her phone interrupts us. My friend glances at the screen.

“Shoot. I told Clay I’d meet him,” she says, clicking off her phone.

I push off the wall and walk over to her, then place my hands on her shoulders. “Go meet your husband. I’ll take another look around and if I can’t find the piece, I’ll photograph your available new ones and send them to him for his choice.”

“Okay. But please don’t stay too late. Call me if you need anything.”

We hug, and I watch as she leaves.

“All right, flower painting. Where the hell are you?” I plant my hands on my hips and scan the room.

Some time later, my phone rings.Miles.

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