Page 7 of The Art of Loving You

Maybe he wasn’t wrong. If she dug too deep, she could unravel everything. But the thought of walking away from her? That felt like the real mistake.

At a red light, my thoughts drifted to my parents. Their divorce had blindsided me. They had always seemed like a unit, but looking back, I wondered—had our family’s secrets broken them? Had my mother reached her limit?

I turned onto the road leading to Coconut Grove Café, pushing the thought away. As I parked, the nerves I hadn’t realized had faded into anticipation.

Whatever complications existed, seeing Ella was worth it.

The café was warm and inviting, and the scent of roasted coffee drifted through the open windows. As I stepped inside, my gaze landed on her instantly.

Ella sat by the window, her dark waves catching sunlight. She held a cup of coffee in her hands. She looked up, met my eyes, and smiled. She was bright, genuine, and dangerous.

“Lucas,” she said, her voice like a song I hadn’t realized I’d missed.

I made my way over, slipping into the seat across from her. “Ella Blake. Still turning heads, I see.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, please. You walked in like you own the place.”

“Force of habit,” I admitted with a smirk. “You look great, by the way.”

A slight flush crept up her neck. “So do you. But you know that.”

I leaned back, letting her words settle. “I missed this. Talking to you.”

Ella tilted her head. “Me too.”

Conversation flowed like no time had passed. She spoke about the Chagall exhibit, her voice lighting up when she described the lesser-known pieces she was showcasing. Her passion was contagious, and I found myself getting lost in her enthusiasm, nodding along as she painted vivid pictures with her words. Through her eyes, I could see the vibrant blues and reds of Chagall’s work, a world where colors danced and dreams took flight.

Then, something shifted in her tone. “I wanted to feature one of the Chagalls from the Devereux collection, but the loan request was declined.”

I tensed. Of course. My father.

“I saw that,” I said evenly. “Dad is very strict about loaning out our art, but maybe I can help in another way. The Met in New York has a stunning collection—I know the curator. I could make a call.”

Ella blinked, surprised. “Lucas, that would be… amazing. Are you sure it’s not too much trouble?”

“For you?” I smirked. “Never.”

The conversation lightened after that—old memories, inside jokes, stolen glances. We discussed the various art shows and auctions we had attended together over a few years. As the minutes ticked by, a thought gnawed at me. When she left, when this moment ended—would I let her walk away again?

I leaned forward. “What are you doing Friday night?”

Ella arched a brow, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Why? Are you finally going to take me on a proper date?”

I laughed, caught off guard. “Maybe. If you’re lucky.”

She grinned. “Fine. I’ll pencil you in.”

“Pencil?” I scoffed, feigning offense. “I was hoping for ink.”

Ella chuckled, shaking her head. “Friday sounds perfect.”

We lingered for a moment, the air between us charged with something unspoken but undeniable. Then, she reached for her bag, and reality nudged its way back in.

I stood, pulling out her chair before following her toward the door. As I pushed it open, the golden sunshine of late afternoon spilled into the café, wrapping around her like a spotlight.

She turned back, her smile lingering. “See you Friday, Lucas.”

I watched as she walked away, her silhouette framed by the sun. For the first time in a long while, I felt something unfamiliar.

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